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THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


THE  IDYL  or  TWIN  FIRES 

THE  AMERICAN  STAGE  or  TO-DAT 

AT  THE  NEW  THEATRE  AND  OTHERS 

BARN  DOORS  AND  BYWAYS 

BOY  Scours  OF  BERKSHIRE 

BOY  Scours  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP 

BOY  Scours  IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 

BOY  Scours  or  THE  WILD  CAT  PATROL 

THE  RUNAWAY  PLACE  (With  Elise  Under  kiti) 

THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  CHRISTMAS 


"The  Bird  House  Man  looked  into  the  blue  eyes  raised  to 
his  and  blinked  behind  his  glasses,  'None  of  your  nonsense !' 
he  cried,  'With  whom  did  you  go  to  that  dance  ?'  " 


THE 
BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 


BY 
WALTER  PRICHARD  EATON 


ILLUSTRATED 

BY 
THOMAS  FOGAETY 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YOBJC 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
WALTER  PRICHARD  EATON 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


corruoHT,  1915, 1916,  a*  TBI  reiLUM  FOBUSHWO  cewPAinr 


To 
MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 


2135262 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACE 

I.  THE  SONG  SPARROW S 

II.  THE  WREN .  89 

HI.  THE  LITTLE  GRAY  GOOSE 68 

IV,  THE  HERMIT 81 

V.  THE  JACKDAW - .     ,  110 

VI.  THE  WILD  DUCK 141 

VII.  THE  MEADOW  LARKS 175 

VIII.  THE  CHICKADEE    .     .  - 197 

IX.  THE  GOLDFINCH 226 

X.  THE  PAMPERED  FLEDGLING 263 

XI.  THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL.     .     .     .  **.     .     .     .298 

XII.  THE  HOMING  PIGEON  .  S27 


vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  The  Bird  House  Man  looked  into  the  blue 
eyes  raised  to  his  and  blinked  behind  his 
glasses.  *  None  of  your  nonsense!'  he  cried. 
*  With  whom  did  you  go  to  that  dance  ? ' " 

(S«e  page  8)  Frontispiece 

FACING  PACB 

'  Yes,  she  went  on  .  .  .  '  You  must  go 
with  me,  because  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you 
he  would  never  have  met  me.  You  were 
to  blame  in  the  first  place.' " 78 

" '  I  can't  help  looking  at  you,  because  I  love 
you.  Yes,  I  do,  I  love  you!'"  ....  170 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   SONG  SPARROW 

THE  garden  of  the  Bird  House  Man  was  the 
oddest  garden  in  Southmead.  Some  visitors  de- 
clared they  had  never  seen  its  like  anywhere.  It 
lay  behind  a  little  rambling  white  house  on  the  edge 
of  the  village,  and  was  quite  invisible  from  the  road, 
because  the  lot  was  narrow  and  that  part  of  the 
frontage  not  occupied  by  the  house  was  nearly  filled 
by  the  shop,  a  pleasant  little  building  also  painted 
white  with  bright  green  shutters.  In  front  of  this 
shop,  on  weathered  poles,  were  samples  of  bird 
houses,  and  on  the  foremost  pole,  beneath  a  little 
martin  house,  swung  out  a  wooden  sign  which  creaked 
in  the  wind,  and  bore  in  gilt  letters  this  legend: 


FARNUM'S  FAMOUS  BIRD  HOUSES 


But  when  you  passed  between  the  shop  and  the 
house  you  found  that  the  lot  ran  back  several  acres, 
bounded  on  either  side  by  a  thick  hemlock  hedge 
twenty  feet  high  which  completely  shut  it  off  from 
the  world.  At  first  the  garden  was  a  riot  of  little 

8 


flower  beds  separated  by  sanded  paths,  with  two 
big  maples  on  either  side,  and  in  the  centre  two 
elaborate  bird  baths  which  flanked  a  sundial,  baths 
made  of  white  cement  and  marble  dust  in  the  shape 
of  large  toadstools  inverted  on  their  stems.  A  num- 
ber of  weathered  gray  bird  boxes  and  feeding  tables 
were  nailed  to  the  trees  or  stood  on  poles  amid  the 
beds,  one  or  two  swinging  from  the  trees  like  lan- 
terns; one,  on  a  very  tall  pole,  was  a  perfect  repro- 
duction, even  to  the  shutters,  of  Alec  Farnum's 
dwelling.  If  you  followed  the  central  path  of  this 
garden  and  passed  the  sundial,  across  a  bit  of  green 
lawn  and  through  a  neat  vegetable  area,  you  came 
to  a  downward  slope  leading  to  a  little  pond  sur- 
rounded by  great  masses  of  iris,  riotous  in  June; 
beyond  the  pond  stood  a  little  grove  of  tamaracks, 
and  then  a  quarter-acre  of  shrubby  cinquefoil.  This 
cinquefoil  thicket  was  surrounded  by  a  high  wire 
fence,  with  a  barbed  line  all  along  the  top  of  it,  and 
half  hidden  hi  the  tamaracks  was  what  appeared  to 
be  a  chicken  house,  painted  green.  It  was  reached 
by  a  rustic  bridge  over  the  dam  at  the  left  side  of  the 
garden,  for  the  pond  had  been  artificially  enlarged. 

The  real  charm  of  this  garden  end,  however,  came 
from  the  occupants.  On  the  grassy  slope  between 
you  and  the  irised  rim  of  the  pond,  a  slope  where  two 
or  three  gnarled  old  apple  trees  sprawled  in  Japanese 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  5 

picturesqueness,  a  cock  pheasant  was  usually  walk- 
ing with  his  wives  behind  him,  the  sun  shining  on 
his  iridescent  neck  feathers,  his  long  tail  sweeping 
like  the  rudder  of  an  aeroplane.  Sometimes  a  pheas- 
ant or  two  would  be  perched  in  the  apple  trees,  un- 
seen, and  astonish  you  by  fluttering  down  at  your 
feet.  Beyond  the  slope,  on  the  surface  of  the  pond, 
ducks  were  swimming,  not  the  heavy  domestic  sort, 
but  beautiful  wild  mallards.  You  became  con- 
scious, too,  in  the  June  sunlight,  in  this  quiet  garden, 
of  a  wealth  of  bird  song  not  to  be  explained  by  your 
close  proximity  to  the  wooded  hills  which  pressed 
close  in  about  Southmead.  Song  sparrows  were 
singing  all  about  you — one  swayed  in  the  top  of  a 
hemlock  in  the  hedge,  sharp  against  the  sky,  so  that 
you  could  see  his  little  throat  flutter.  An  oriole 
flashed  in  the  apple  tree,  swallowed  a  caterpillar, 
and  poured  out  a  blessing  on  the  feast.  The  robins 
were  busy.  A  catbird  mewed  in  the  tamarack 
thicket.  There  was  even  the  indescribable  sweet 
call  of  a  wood  thrush. 

But  on  the  June  morning  which  particularly  con- 
cerns us  there  was  another  song  besides.  It  came 
from  the  throat  of  a  girl  who  was  standing  amid  the 
iris  clumps  at  the  edge  of  the  pool,  watching  the 
ducks.  She  stopped  singing  long  enough  to  call, 
"Good  morning,  Bert,"  at  the  figure  of  a  man  mov- 


C  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

ing  about  in  the  pen  of  the  bird  house  across  the 
pond,  and  then  she  began  again,  turning  slowly  and 
passing  up  the  slope  toward  the  house.  A  cock 
pheasant  stepped  out  of  the  path  just  far  enough  to 
avoid  contact,  and  watched  her  go  by.  She  paused 
in  her  song  once  more  and  said,  "Good  morning, 
Sir  Rupert." 

When  she  reached  the  flower  garden,  two  chipping 
sparrows  and  a  robin  were  contending  for  the  pos- 
session of  one  of  the  bird  baths;  the  other,  twenty 
feet  away,  was  unoccupied.  She  had  to  stop  sing- 
ing a  third  time  to  point  out  to  them  that  their 
strife  was  quite  childish  and  unnecessary;  then  she 
moved  along  a  side  path  bordered  with  foxglove, 
and  selected  a  stem  of  white  bells  flecked  with  pink, 
which  she  picked  and  pinned  across  her  breast. 

"He  won't  mind,"  she  said,  hah*  aloud. 

After  that  she  walked  to  the  back  door  of  the  little 
white  shop,  and  entered. 

The  owner  of  the  garden  and  the  maker  of  Far- 
num's  Famous  Bird  Houses  looked  up  from  his  work- 
bench in  feigned  surprise. 

"Oh,  it's  only  you,  is  it?"  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
great  disappointment.  "  I  thought  a  nightingale  had 
somehow  strayed  into  my  garden." 

"You  don't  seem  very  glad  that  it's  me,"  said  the 
girl. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  7 

"Well,  why  should  I  be?"  said  the  Bird  House 
Man,  laying  down  the  saw  he  held  in  his  hand. 
"In  the  first  place,  you  say  'It's  me';  and,  in  the 
second  place,  last  night  was  your  night  to  come  to 
the  Bird  House  and  sing;  and  you  go  traipsing  off 
to  a  dance  instead  with  some  young  fellow  not  half 
so  interesting  nor  so  handsome  as  I  am." 

The  girl  laughed. 

"And  you've  been  stealing  one  of  my  foxgloves, 
into  the  bargain,"  he  added. 

"But  doesn't  it  look  pretty  where  it  is?"  she  asked. 

The  man  surveyed  her  gravely  as  she  stood  in  the 
open  doorway  with  the  June  sunlight  behind  her. 
She  was  slender  and  rather  tall  than  short,  with  blue 
eyes  and  delicate  features,  with  a  mouth  that  smiled, 
but  could,  you  felt,  be  very  wistful.  For  all  her 
plain  white  dress,  you  would  have  turned  a  second 
time  to  gaze  upon  her  when  she  passed,  for  she  was 
virginal  and  lovely,  and  her  little  bare  throat  curved 
to  her  hidden  shoulders  adorably.  Now  she  was 
smiling  and  awaiting  the  man's  reply. 

He  didn't  answer  at  once,  but  seemed  to  be  pon- 
dering the  question.  He  was  a  big  man,  not  at  all 
the  gentle,  mild  old  fellow  you  might  have  inferred 
from  his  garden  and  his  occupation.  His  hair  was 
gray  and  there  was  gray  in  his  small,  pointed  beard; 
but  he  was  hard  and  brown,  with  eyes  bright  behind 


8  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

his  gold  spectacles,  and  he  carried  himself  like  a  man 
of  forty.  He  wore  his  trousers  with  a  belt,  like  a 
youngster,  and  had  the  air,  indeed,  less  of  a  workman 
than  a  well-preserved  professor  pottering  with  a 
hobby. 

"Well!"  she  said  finally,  assuming  a  pout,  "doesn't 
it  look  nice?" 

"With  whom  did  you  go  to  that  dance?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"I  won't  tell  you  when  you  ask  me  that  way.  Be- 
sides, it's  none  of  your  business,"  she  laughed. 

"Ho,  isn't  it!  You  think  you  can  play  the  tyrant 
over  me,  do  you?  Well,  maybe  you  can,  up  to  a 
certain  point.  But  there  is  always  a  limit.  You've 
made  me  go  to  church,  I  admit,  but  you  shan't 
dictate  how  I  shall  ask  questions!" 

"7  made  you  go  to  church?" 

"Yes,  you!  Do  you  think  I'd  ever  set  foot  in 
that  stuffy  mausoleum  of  dead  creeds  and  hear  that 
young,  soft-faced  rector  admire  his  own  platitudes, 
when  I  might  be  out  watching  a  mother  partridge 
play  broken  wing,  if  you  didn't  sing  in  the  choir?" 

The  girl  came  close  to  him,  raising  her  face  to  his. 
"Who  was  the  good  fairy  that  had  me  taught  to 
sing? "  she  asked.  " It's  his  fault." 

The  man  looked  into  the  blue  eyes  raised  to  his 
and  blinked  behind  his  glasses.  "None  of  your 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  9 

nonsense!"  he  cried.  "With  whom  did  you  go  to 
that  dance?" 

Then  they  smiled  at  one  another,  and  the  girl 
answered  quite  simply:  "With  Tom  Cook." 

"H'm!"  said  the  creator  of  Farnum's  Famous 
Bird  Houses.  "Tom  Cook!  Why'd  you  go  with 
him?  All  right,  I  know — because  he  asked  you." 

"I  suppose  that  was  the  reason,"  she  smiled. 
"Why,  don't  you  like  Tom?" 

"Who  said  I  didn't  like  Tom?" 

"You  did— all  over." 

"Did  I,  now?  Well,  you  tell  me  first  why  you 
<fc  like  Tom?" 

"Who  said  I  liked  Tom?" 

"Do  girls  go  to  dances  with  boys  they  don't  like?" 

"Of  course  they  do,  you  silly  old  thing,  when  they 
would  have  to  stay  at  home  otherwise." 

"Would  you  have  had  to  stay  at  home  other- 
wise?" he  demanded,  with  a  fine  air  of  incredulity. 

"Other  people  don't  think  me  as  nice  as  you  do," 
the  girl  answered,  looking  at  him  fondly.  "I — I 
gues"s  I'm  rather  quiet." 

"Hello!"  cried  Alec  Farnum,  pushing  his  half- 
finished  bird  house  to  the  back  of  the  bench.  "  Come 
out  and  see  what  I've  got  in  the  garden." 

She  looked  surprised  at  this  abrupt  transition, 
but  followed  him  as  he  led  her  to  an  old  cigar  box 


10  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

tacked  under  the  low  eave  of  the  woodshed,  with  a 
round  hole  the  size  of  a  quarter  cut  in  the  side.  A 
wren  flew  out  as  they  approached  and  inside  she  saw 
the  nest  and  the  little  eggs. 

"  Ungrateful  female ! "  the  man  exclaimed.  "  Here 
I  put  up  my  fine  apartments,  and  lower  the  rent 
ridiculously — and  nothing  doing.  Along  comes  that 
eight-year-old  whipper-snapper,  Georgie  French,  takes 
an  old  cigar  box,  and  gets  a  tenant  right  away! 
Fool  bird!  It's  like  riding  in  a  day-coach  smoker 
when  you  might  have  a  Pullman.  They  were  only 
five-cent  cigars  in  that  box,  too." 

"But  think  how  pleased  Georgie  will  be,"  said 
the  girl. 

The  man  turned  his  face  away,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  with  pleasure  as  if  the  answer  delighted 
him.  But  he  said,  "H'm,  he's  forgotten  all  about 
his  box  by  now,  the  young  pup.  Come,  let's  sit 
by  the  sundial.  Hear  that  song  sparrow!  He  sings 
like  you,  Ruth.  That's  what  you  are — a  song 
sparrow.  All  people  are  like  some  sort  of  a  bird, 
all  nice  people." 

Ruth  sat  beside  him  on  a  garden  bench  and  seemed 
waiting  for  him  to  continue.  He  listened  to  the 
bird  song  for  a  long  moment  in  silence  and  then  he 
said,  in  a  grave,  quiet  voice:  "My  little  girl  is  grow- 
ing up !  I  call  you  my  little  girl  still,  Ruth,  because 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  11 

you  have  no  daddy  and  I  have  no  daughter.  You 
don't  mind?" 

For  answer  Ruth  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"That's  it!"  he  said,  patting  her  fingers.  "Now 
you  are  really  a  little  girl.  I  was  never  a  little 
girl  myself,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  know  much  about 
'em,  which  proves  I'm  the  wisest  man  in  the  world. 
But  isn't  it  true  that  little  girls  dream  about  brave 
knights  who  will  some  day  come  riding  by,  brave  and 
good  knights,  who'll  sing  serenades  and  quote  poetry 
and  make  you  feel  like  a  song  by  Schubert  or  Schu- 
mann?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  girls  do  dream  such  things 
sometimes,"  she  answered,  "and  then  they  wake 
up.  I  suppose  every  girl  dreams  of  a  man  who — 
who — well,  who's  Sir  Launcelot  for  her.  But  why 
do  you  ask?  Surely  you  don't  think  that  I — Tom 
Cook 1" 

"Dear  me,  no!  Tom  Cook  singing  a  serenade? 
Perish  the  thought!  But  my  little  girl  is  growing 
up,  just  the  same,  and  she  will  be  dreaming  like  all 
the  rest.  No,  I  don't  ask  if  she  has.  I  never  peep 
into  secret  gardens.  But  I  do  want  to  know  why 
you  say,  'and  then  they  wake  up.'  That  sounds 
cynical.  It  interests  me." 

"Girls  in  Southmead,  maybe  I  should  have 
said,"  she  answered.  "Knights  don't  come  riding 


12  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

by  for  Southmead  girls,  you  must  know  that,  Uncle 
Alec." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  kind.  Why  not  for 
Southmead  girls?" 

"You  know  why,"  she  said.  "Oh,  you  might 
have  come  to  somebody  with  romance  blazoned  in 
gold  on  your  purple  banner,  you  selfish  old  thing! 
But  now  our  boys — well,  if  they  are  smart  they  go 
to  Boston  or  New  York.  If  they  stay  here,  it  means 
they  have  no  romance  in  their  souls." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  man  gravely,  "you 
don't  need  to  be  a  successful  New  York  stock  broker 
to  have  romance  in  your  soul!" 

"Of  course  not,"  she  said.  "But — oh,  dear,  how 
shall  I  put  it?  I  can't  talk  the  way  you  can — you've 
got  to  have  a  heart  that  feels  beauty  in  things,  and 
a  mind  that,  that  strikes  sparks" 

"Ruth,  you  abominable  child,  you  are  growing 
up!"  said  the  man.  "Shall  I  take  you  to  Boston 
with  me  on  my  lecture  trip?  No,  you'd  distract 
attention  from  the  lecture.  You  come  to  see  me 
when  I  get  back.  I'm  going  to  bring  you  some  new 
songs.  Go  home  now  and  tell  your  mother  to  put 
you  in  pinafores  to  retard  your  growth.  Go  out 
through  the  house,  will  you,  and  gather  up  the  pile 
of  manuscript  on  my  desk  before  it  blows  all  over 
the  place.  It's  another  chapter  of  the  new  "Bird 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  13 

Book."  You  can  be  typing  it  while  I'm  gone.  Un- 
grateful chit,  you!  Growing  up!  A  cynic!  No 
romance  in  Southmead!  And  you  a  song  sparrow!" 

"Aren't  you  funny  to-day?"  said  she,  as  she  got 
up  to  go.  "Don't  stay  away  too  long." 

"Only  long  enough  to  find  somebody  who  doesn't 
believe  romance  is  dead,"  he  sniffed.  "I  have  to 
go  to  town  to  renew  my  faith,  you  see." 

He  went  back  to  his  shop  when  she  had  departed 
and  finished  the  bluebird  box  he  was  at  work  upon, 
then  he  crossed  the  drive  into  his  house.  Mrs. 

• 

Plumb,  his  housekeeper,  was  already  setting  the 
table. 

"You  ain't  got  none  too  much  time  to  pack,"  she 
said,  in  her  sharp  tones.  "You  know  you  said  I 
was  to  remind  you  to  take  the  train  for  Boston  this 
afternoon,  'cause  you'd  got  to  lecture  to  the  Milton 
Bird  Club  to-morrow.  You'd  better  get  a  shirt  or 
two  in  Boston,  too.  That  heathen  Chinese  where 
you  insist  on  taking  your  laundry  ain't  content  ter 
spit  tobacco  juice  on  the  bosoms — now  he's  made  saw 
teeth  of  the  cuffs." 

"No  shirt  will  live  forever,  Mrs.  Plumb,"  said 
Alec  Farnum  philosophically. 

"Well,  there's  no  great  need  of  killin'  'em  off  in 
childhood,  ez  I  can  see,"  she  retorted. 

The  man  sat  down  to  his  luncheon,  which  Mrs. 


14  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Plumb  served  him.  As  he  ate,  he  talked,  raising  his 
voice  to  reach  her  when  she  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"Did  you  ever  reflect,"  he  said,  "that  the  birds 
never  make  a  mistake  in  mating?  Robins  mate 
with  robins,  hermits  with  hermits.  Who  ever  heard 
of  a  song  sparrow  mated  with  a  grackle?  It's  only 
we  poor  blundering  humans  who  get  all  mixed  up  in 
our  mating." 

"Yes,  there's  that  Sally  Fisher,  she's  married  a 
Jew!"  said  Mrs.  Plumb.  "Can't  no  happiness 
come  of  marryin'  a  Jew,  /  say." 

"I'd  go  farther  than  that,"  smiled  the  man.  "It 
isn't  so  much  Jew  or  Chinese  or  Slav  that  makes  the 
difference  in  us  humans;  it's  our  souls.  Some  of 
us  are  wild  ducks,  and  some  of  us  are  hermits,  and 
some  of  us  are  domestic  robins,  or  merry  chickadees, 
or  cantankerous  crows.  There  are  nightingales  and 
song  sparrows,  as  well  as  hawks  and  grackles.  But 
we  don't  find  our  own  kind  at  mating  time.  Do 
you  know  why  we  don't,  Mrs.  Plumb?" 

"No.    Will  you  have  some  more  peas?"  said  she. 

"I  will,  they  are  delicious,"  he  answered.  "The 
first  early  peas  are  always  delicious.  The  answer 
to  my  question  is  that  the  circulation  among  souls 
is  not  free  enough.  It  is  too  constricted.  Love, 
Mrs.  Plumb,  is  with  us  a  matter  of  proximity.  We 
have  to  love,  it's  our  nature.  If  we  are  a  song 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  15 

sparrow,  and  there  is  no  other  song  sparrow  in  sight, 
we  foolishly  fall  in  love  with  the  grackle  next  door. 
That's  the  whole  trouble  with  humanity!" 

"Lord,  if  it  only  was!"  said  Mrs.  Plumb.  "Now, 
you  hurry  and  pack  your  bag,  and  don't  forget  your 
pajamas  this  time.  You've  had  to  buy  six  more 
pairs  than  you  need  in  the  past  four  months." 

"Very  well,"  said  he,  lighting  his  cigar  and  rising 
from  the  table,  "and  don't  you  forget  to  keep  the 
bird  baths  filled." 

"I  ain't  the  forgettin'  kind,"  she  retorted. 

The  man  departed  presently,  with  the  end  of  a 
necktie  sticking  out  from  under  the  cover  of  his  suit- 
case and  a  small  leather  case  of  lantern  slides  carried 
tenderly  in  his  right  hand.  Five  days  later  he  re- 
turned in  the  evening  accompanied  by  a  young  man 
who  was  laden  down  with  a  painter's  field  kit  in 
addition  to  his  other  luggage.  He  had  a  boyish 
face,  which  nobody  would  have  called  handsome 
but  anybody  would  have  called  honest  and  pleasant, 
and  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  music — a  rare  thing. 
His  "Good  evening"  quite  took  the  wind  out  of 
Mrs.  Plumb's  sails  as  she  started  to  bear  down  upon 
poor  Alec  Farnum  hi  anger  at  his  bringing  home  an 
unexpected  guest,  and  after  supper  she  left  the 
kitchen  door  open  to  hear  the  sounds  which  this 
guest  was  evoking  from  the  piano,  while  Mr.  Alec 


16  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

sat  huddled  contentedly  in  his  big  chair,  puffing  at 
his  pipe.  Once  she  peeped  through  the  door,  and 
was  amazed  to  see  that  the  young  man  had  no  lights 
on  the  piano  at  all — he  seemed  to  be  making  up  what 
he  played  out  of  his  own  head,  as  she  put  it  to  her- 
self. 

"Now,  Rob,"  said  his  host  the  next  morning, 
"you  can  roam  where  you  like  after  to-day.  But 
this  morning,  first  of  all,  you've  got  to  make  me  a 
sketch  of  my  duck  pond  while  the  Japanese  irises 
are  out.  You  come  with  me." 

He  led  the  painter  down  through  the  garden, 
across  the  dam,  and  into  the  tamaracks  at  the  farther 
side.  There  he  found  a  spot  where  an  opening  made 
a  little  vista  of  the  pond  with  the  green  slope  rising 
beyond,  and  in  this  spot  he  made  the  young  man 
set  up  his  easel. 

"  This  is  exactly  the  view  I  want,"  said  he,  "only 
there  should  be  a  human  figure  over  there  in  the 
irises,  to  show  how  tall  they  are.  You'd  like  a  model, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"I  don't  think  it's  necessary,"  laughed  Rob.  "I 
ought  to  be  able  to  scale  the  irises  by  the  apple 
trees  beyond,  or  even  by  the  ducks." 

"No,  I  want  a  human  in  the  sketch,"  his  host 
declared.  "You  be  sketching  in  the  scene,  and  I'll 
go  find  a  model." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  17 

"  Get  a  little  girl  in  a  white  dress  if  you  can,"  the 
other  said. 

"A  good  idea!"  cried  Alec  Farnum  with  a  smile. 

He  crossed  the  dam,  looked  back,  and  saw  that 
the  painter  was  almost  concealed  to  casual  observa- 
tion from  this  side,  smiled  again,  and  went  up  to  the 
house  and  telephoned  to  Ruth. 

"Hello,  I'm  back!"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Plumb  is 
happy  because  I  didn't  have  to  add  to  my  collection 
of  pajamas.  But  I've  something  new  to  show  you; 
something  quite  wonderful.  Please  come  right  over, 
and,  by  the  way,  wear  a  white  dress.  .  .  .  What? 
.  .  .  Oh,  why?  Because  I  like  to  see  you  in 
white.  .  .  .  Not  at  all,  I  always  notice." 

Five  minutes  later  Ruth,  flushed  with  running, 
came  into  the  workshop  and  found  him  with  coat 
off  busily  sawing. 

"Now,  what  is  the  surprise?"  she  cried.  "Show 
it  to  me,  quick!" 

"Oh,  no!  You've  got  to  find  it  for  yourself," 
said  he.  "You  go  down  to  the  pond  and  stand  on 
our  wishing  stone  amid  the  iris,  and  look  hard. 
Then  if  you  are  not  surprised,  I'll  be!" 

"You  funny  old  fairy,  what  are  you  up  to  now?" 
she  asked,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  affection 
and  curiosity,  and  an  odd  doubt  she  could  not  have 
explained.  "I  hope  it  isn't  another  wife  for  Sir 


18  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Rupert,"  she  added,  "because  he's  got  quite  too 
many  as  it  is." 

"Go  and  see!"  he  commanded. 

She  went  skipping  down  the  slope,  her  eyes 
searching  the  lawn  and  the  surface  of  the  pond  to 
see  if  any  new  pheasants  or  ducks  were  in  sight, 
pushed  her  way  through  the  tall  iris  stalks,  and 
reached  a  flat  stone  on  the  margin  of  the  pool,  with 
yellow  and  purple  iris  blossoms  on  either  side  of 
her.  There  she  stood  poised,  gazing  at  the  stone, 
at  the  water,  at  the  flowers — and  saw  nothing  un- 
usual. She  was  about  to  turn  and  look  behind  her 
when  a  peremptory  voice  came  over  the  water: 
"  Don't  move !  That's  fine.  Hold  that  pose,  please ! " 

Ruth  was  too  astonished  to  do  anything  for  a 
second  but  hold  the  pose.  Then  she  slowly  raised 
her  eyes  toward  the  other  side  of  the  little  pond  and 
searched  out  the  spot  where  the  artist  was  seated, 
only  his  head  and  shoulders  and  the  top  of  his 
canvas  visible  over  the  undergrowth.  She  could 
see  only  enough  to  distinguish  that  he  was  young. 
As  he  looked  at  her  fixedly  and  turned  quickly  to 
dab  at  his  canvas,  she  flushed  a  hot  red  all  over  and 
felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  turn  and  flee.  She 
did,  in  fact,  turn,  but  again  his  voice  called  to  her: 

"Oh,  please!  Just  as  you  were,  I  won't  keep  you 
there  long.  I  told  Mr.  Farnum  to  send  a  little  girl, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  19 

but  this  is  much  better,  a  little  girl  would  have  been 
no  taller  than  those  purple  irises." 

So  this  was  the  surprise!  Ruth  was  angry. 
Uncle  Alec  had  no  right  to  submit  her  to  this  with- 
out warning  her — making  her  an  artist's  model 
for  a  total  stranger.  She  hadn't  even  put  on  a 
good  dress,  only  her  old  white  muslin.  And  her 
hair  was  every  which  way.  She  wouldn't  stay! 
Then  a  new  thought  struck  her,  and  she  turned  rosy 
red  again.  She  suddenly  recalled  their  conver- 
sation before  he  went  away,  about  Tom  Cook  and 
romance  and  knights  who  came  riding  by.  So  Uncle 
Alec  had  brought  him  here  for — for  that!  Oh,  how 
could  men  be  so  clumsy!  Of  course,  he  was  an  old 
dear — but  that!  What  would  this  artist  think  if  he 
ever  guessed?  And  of  course  he  would  guess,  Uncle 
Alec  was  so  transparent.  She  would  never  come 
near  the  garden  till  the  stranger  had  gone  away. 
She  was  too  kind-hearted  to  spoil  the  picture  now, 
but  she  would  run  the  minute  it  was  over.  She  was 
angry,  mortified,  and  a  little  frightened.  But  she 
stood  quite  still  till  the  artist  again  sang  out,  "There! 
I've  sketched  you  in.  Don't  you  want  to  see  the 
result?" 

"Thank  you,  I— I "  Ruth  began. 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  it  is  a  tangle  getting  in  here. 
Wait,  I'll  bring  it." 


20  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

He  arose,  picked  up  his  canvas,  and  came  quickly 
across  the  bridge  toward  her.  Ruth  had  stepped 
back  to  the  grassy  slope,  and  awaited  him  with  a 
flushed  face  and  beating  heart.  His  voice  was 
pleasant,  she  had  to  admit.  His  face,  too,  as  he 
drew  near,  was  pleasant.  He  was  a  nice  man — but 
of  course  Uncle  Alec  would  have  invited  only  a 
nice  man,  and  that  made  it  worse.  She  sunk  her 
head,  embarrassed,  as  he  came  up-,  and  looked  but 
sideways  at  the  sketch  he  held,  which  smelled  pun- 
gently  of  the  fresh  oils.  It  didn't  seem  to  her  much 
more  than  daubs  of  colour.  She  could  hardly  find 
what  was  meant  for  her  figure  at  first. 

"You're  not  very  used  to  looking  at  pictures  in  the 
making,  are  you?  "  he  laughed  frankly.  "  Or  are  you, 
and  do  you  really  know  what  a  bad  painter  I  am?  " 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that!  I'm  not  used,  at  all "  she 

stammered,  more  than  ever  embarrassed. 

He  laughed  gayly.  "Well,  then  I'm  safe.  But  I 
could  be  a  real  painter,  with  you  as  a  model — not 
across  an  iris  pond  hi  this  hard  light,  but  sitting  at 
the  window  of  an  old-fashioned  house,  say — Benson 
stuff,  you  know.  My,  you  were  made  to  paint!" 

There  was  no  missing  the  genuine  admiration  of 
his  tone,  and  Ruth  could  feel  his  eyes  on  her  face. 
She  felt  herself  growing  hot  again,  but  she  had  to 
lift  her  eyes  a  second  to  his,  and  then  she  dropped 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  21 

them  again  in  an  excess  of  surprise,  of  embarrass- 
ment, of  strange,  subtle  pleasure. 

"Will  you  let  me?"  he  demanded. 

"I — I — I  don't  know/'  she  said. 

Again  he  laughed.  "It's  just  like  that  old  duck 
up  there  to  send  you  down  here  without  coming 
himself  to  introduce  us,  isn't  it?  He  just  thinks  of 
everybody  as  children.  My  name  is  Robert  Eliot 
— one  I  and  one  t — and  I'm  a  poor  devil  of  an  artist 
rescued  from  a  big  city  by  our  mutual  friend.  He 
was  kind  enough  to  say  he  wanted  company;  and 
he  knew,  I  guess,  that  I  wanted  free  board ! " 

The  young  man  again  laughed  easily  as  he  made 
this  frank  revelation.  Ruth  had  heard  of  struggling 
artists.  Only  the  other  day  she  had  been  reading 
some  sketches  of  Latin  Quarter  life.  In  her  secret 
heart  she  admired  them  tremendously,  for  they  had 
the  courage  to  do  what  she  could  never  do.  She 
sang;  Uncle  Alec  had  given  her  lessons  for  three 
years,  every  summer,  with  a  fine  teacher  who  spent 
the  hot  months  in  Southmead.  But  it  was  only  in 
her  secret  dreams  that  she  could  fancy  herself  leav- 
ing her  home,  her  mother,  and  buffeting  the  big  world 
for  a  place  in  the  musical  spotlight.  Yet  there  was 
the  spark  of  sympathy  and  understanding  in  her.  She 
again  looked  into  Eliot's  face. 

" I'm  Ruth  Barnes,"  she  said.    "I  call  Mr.  Farnum 


£2  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Uncle  Alec,  because  he  has  always  been  my  best 
friend.  My  father  died  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
He  is  always  doing  kind  things  for  people.  Now,  I 
— I  must  go." 

"Not  till  you  promise  to  sit  for  me,  really,"  he 
cried. 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to?"  she  asked,  her  voice 
very  low.  She  could  not  resist  the  question. 

"Why?  Bless  my  heart,  can  it  be  there  haven't 
been  any  painters  in  these  parts?  Because  of  your 
hair  and  your  features  and  your  colour  and  your 
neck — not  madonna-like,  that's  not  the  word,  but 
the  essence,  physical  and  spiritual,  of  maidenhood. 
Only  you  must  sit  in  an  old  room,  with  maybe  pink 
in  your  dress,  and  Uncle  Alec's  (I'm  going  to  call 
him  that,  too)  stuffed  bluebird  in  the  northwest 
corner  of  the  canvas,  on  his  white  mantel!" 

How  easily  the  enthusiasm  sprang  into  this  man's 
voice !  It  seemed  to  Ruth  he  created  the  picture  as 
he  talked,  the  picture  of  her.  And  where  were  her 
fine  resolutions? 

"I — I  can't  promise!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  and 
almost  ran  up  the  slope,  leaving  Eliot  astonished. 

In  the  flower  garden  the  Bird  House  Man  was 
waiting  for  her,  his  eyes  twinkling.  He  was  evi- 
dently unprepared  for  what  she  said.  She  paused  in 
front  of  him,  her  face  still  flushed,  and  demanded: 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  23 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Uncle  Alec?  It  was  horrid  of 
you,  really  it  was.  Now  I  can't  come  to  see  you  any 
more!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  ungrateful  young  bag- 
gage?" he  said.  "Can't  come  to  see  me  any  more? 
Hasn't  that  rascal  made  a  good  picture  of  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  good  or  not. 
What  does  that  matter?  What  will  he  think  when 
he  knows?" 

" Knows  what?" 

"What  you've  done." 

"I've  given  him  the  first  chance  he  has  had  in 
three  years  for  a  vacation  and  time  to  paint,  instead 
of  making  hack  book  covers  and  title  pages  in  a 
publisher's  office,  if  that's  what  you  mean — and 
sent  him  what  I  thought,  what  I  thought,  was  a  good 
model.  He's  got  no  kick  coming,  I  guess." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Alec,  you  are  incorrigible!"  she  cried, 
close  to  real  tears.  "I'm  going,  and  I  won't  come 
back  while  he's  here." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  the  man,  paying  no  attention 
to  her  gathering  tears.  "He  plays  the  piano  beau- 
tifully, and  we've  brought  a  lot  of  new  songs,  and 
I  had  thought  of  having  you  and  your  mother  and 
one  or  two  more  in  to-night.  Of  course,  if " 

"Oh,  you  are  just  mean!"  she  cried,  the  tears 
coming  at  last.  And  she  left  him  abruptly. 


24  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"I'm  going  to  paint  a  real  picture  of  that  girl 
you  sent  down,"  said  Eliot  at  luncheon.  "We  had 
to  introduce  ourselves,  by  the  way.  Did  you  think 
we  were  children?" 

"Introductions  are  unromantic,"  the  elder  man 
chuckled.  "  Why  do  you  pick  her  out  to  paint?  " 

"She  is  so  beautifully  featured,  the  nose  and  chin 
and  lovely  girlish  throat.  The  public  likes  pretty- 
girl  pictures,  and  I  can  make  one  with  her,  and  yet 
make  it  the  real  thing  besides.  She's  an  ideal  type 
of  Maidenhood,  and  of  the  old  New  England  into 
the  bargain." 

"Yes,  she's  old  New  England,"  the  other  answered. 
"That's  about  all  we  are  up  here.  Never  thought 
of  her  as  so  astonishingly  pretty,  though.  She's 
a  quiet  little  thing,  good  to  her  mother,  sings  well, 
with  maybe  a  spark  of  temperament  lurking  down 
deep  somewhere.  Most  old  New  Englanders  have 
one,  but  they  need  the  very  devil  of  a  pair  of  bellows 
to  blow  it  to  life." 

"You've  known  her  too  long  as  a  little  girl," 
said  Eliot;  "I'm  sure  you  don't  do  her  justice." 

The  Bird  House  Man  turned  away  his  face  to 
smile.  "Maybe  not,  maybe  not,"  he  said.  "Well, 
you  paint  her  picture  if  you  can.  It  will  keep  both 
of  you  out  of  mischief — perhaps." 

That  night  there  was  a  little  party  in  the  Bird 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  25 

House,  as  Alec  Farnum's  dwelling  was  generally 
called,  and  Mrs.  Barnes  arrived  with  her  daughter, 
who  had  been  casually  informed  by  the  other  guests 
that  afternoon  that  they  were  coming  to  hear  her 
sing.  After  that  she  couldn't  refuse  without  ac- 
knowledging a  break  with  the  Bird  House  Man,  but 
she  glared  at  him  when  she  entered — and  he  laughed. 

There  were  only  two  other  guests:  a  nice  old 
gentleman,  the  president  of  the  village  bank  and 
Alec  Farnum's  life-long  friend,  and  Thomas  Trask, 
a  young  doctor  who  had  recently  come  to  South- 
mead  and  whom  Alec  Farnum  said  he  liked  "be- 
cause he  knows  that  Horace  Greeley  doesn't  edit 
the  Tribune  any  more." 

Eliot  sat  at  the  piano,  evidently  delighted  that 
his  new  model  could  sing,  and  Ruth  soon  forgot  to 
be  angry  in  the  pleasure  of  an  accompaniment  that 
was  true,  resourceful,  and  alive  with  feeling.  She 
lost  her  first  embarrassment  at  performing  before 
this  stranger,  too,  and  sang  better  than  she  knew 
how.  They  still  kept  on  when  the  rest  had  gone 
out  on  the  veranda  over  the  garden,  trying  a  group 
of  songs  Eliot  produced.  Their  heads  were  close 
together  as  they  read  the  unfamiliar  notes.  Phrases 
had  to  be  retried.  A  lovely  melody  had  to  be  re- 
peated. Sometimes  Eliot  would  linger  on  a  chord, 
or  play  it  over  three  or  four  times,  looking  up  at  her 


26  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

for  confirmation  of  his  delight.  Then  she  would 
smile  back,  strangely  thrilled.  Musical  study  had 
never  been  like  this  before! 

Suddenly  she  noticed  that  the  others  were  not  in 
the  room,  and  flushed.  How  long  had  they  been 
gone?  It  was  Uncle  Alec's  doing,  of  course.  She 
stopped  singing  abruptly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Eliot  asked. 

"The  rest — we've  driven  them  out,"  she  said,  a 
little  nervously. 

"So  we  have,"  laughed  the  man.  "Well,  it's  no 
fun  for  other  folks,  listening  to  songs  being  tried 
out.  The  dear  public  wants  only  the  finished  prod- 
uct. But  what  fun  it  is  for  us  artists!  Though 
I'm  only  a  clumsy  amateur  at  music,  to  be  sure." 

"Us  artists!"  The  words  warmed  her  strangely. 
"You  are  the  best  accompanist  I  ever  had,"  she 
replied  instinctively. 

"I  tell  you  what — we'll  try  songs  every  day,  after 
the  sitting  for  the  picture,  eh?"  he  cried,  with  his 
boyish  enthusiasm.  "Uncle  Alec  won't  mind." 

"No,  I  suppose  he  won't,"  she  said,  with  a  quaint 
smile  in  spite  of  herself.  Then  she  quickly  led  the 
way  to  the  veranda. 

"Not  a  bad  little  voice,  is  it?"  the  host  said  half 
an  hour  later  to  his  young  guest,  who  was  puffing  a 
bedtime  pipe. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  27 

"She  forces  the  upper  register  a  little,  and  her 
attacks  are  a  bit  uncertain,"  Eliot  replied;  "but,  gee 
whiz,  how  she  wants  to  sing !  There's  so  much  music 
she  doesn't  know,  never  heard  of.  Why,  it  will  be 
like  taking  a  painter  to  Italy  for  the  first  time  to 
lead  her  into  Gluck  and  Purcell  and  Debussy!" 

"H'm,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man,  "I'm  sleepy. 
The  enthusiasm  of  you  youngsters  is  a  bit  wearying 
to  us  old  chaps.  Come  on  to  bed  with  you." 

Two  days  later  Eliot  demanded  to  know  where 
Ruth  lived,  and  set  off  to  find  her.  She  blushed  as 
she  greeted  him  at  the  door  of  the  little  white  house 
where  she  dwelt  with  her  mother,  and  ushered  him 
rather  ceremoniously  into  a  typical  New  England 
"parlour,"  which  was  dim  and  stiff,  immaculate  in 
its  unloveliness  and  ungracious  with  Puritanical 
hair  cloth.  Only  the  corner  where  the  piano  stood 
looked  as  if  it  were  in  familiar  use. 

"I  came  about  that  picture,"  he  began  at  once. 
"I'm  all  ready,  got  the  canvas  all  laid,  and  the 
lights  gauged.  I'll  have  to  paint  on  it  from  about 
two-thirty  till  four  or  five  to  have  the  light  right. 
It's  too  hard  in  the  morning." 

"Couldn't  you  paint  it  here?"  asked  Ruth.  She 
did  want  to  have  it  painted,  she  did  so  yearn  in  secret 
for  another  session  of  song  trials — yet  she  had  her 
defences  up,  and  her  pride  was  challenged. 


28  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

The  man  shook  his  head,  with  difficulty  refraining 
from  letting  his  eyes  sweep  the  room.  "How  can  I 
explain?"  he  said.  "It's  not  alone  you,  but  the 
particular  light  from  the  olive-brown  walls  in  the 
Bird  House,  and  just  the  corner  of  the  smoky  white 
mantel,  and  Uncle  Alec's  stuffed  blue  jay  and  that 
framed  Audubon  plate  that  hangs  near  the  window. 
The  scheme  is  ideal,  and  it  couldn't  be  reproduced 
anywhere  else." 

"Couldn't  you  bring  the  blue  jay  here?" 

"But  hardly  the  wall  paper.'* 

"Some  of  that  is  coming  down  already,"  Ruth 
smiled.  "Mrs.  Plumb  has  tried  three  times  to  glue 
it,  because  Uncle  Alec  won't  have  the  village  paper- 
hanger  in  the  house;  he  says  he  knows  he  snares 
partridges." 

Mrs.  Barnes  came  into  the  room  just  then,  and  Eliot 
turned  to  her  with  his  plea. 

"Why  not  go,  Ruth?"  she  asked.  "If  it  isn't  all 
right  to  go  to  the  Bird  House,  I  don't  know  where 
you  can  go.  You  live  there  hah*  the  time  as  it 
is!" 

Ruth  flushed.  She  had  not  been  thinking  of  the 
proprieties.  Nobody  but  Uncle  Alec  could  know 
what  she  had  been  fighting  for,  and  he  would  only 
dimly  understand.  He  was  a  man,  after  all.  And 
now  her  mother  had  made  it  necessary  that  she 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  29 

should  either  surrender  or  withdraw;  either  go  or 
refuse  point-blank. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  said  briefly.  "What  kind 
of  a  dress  shall  I  wear?  " 

"Show  me  all  you  have!"  cried  Eliot  enthusi- 
astically. 

Her  mother  helped  her  bring  down  several  dresses, 
and  he  made  her  hold  each  one  to  her  chin  in  the 
light  of  the  window.  "That's  it!"  he  said,  at  a 
white  muslin  with  tiny  pink  roses  on  it.  "Wear 
that,  and  come  this  afternoon — the  light  is  fine  to- 
day. Good-bye,  I  shall  gobble  my  lunch!" 

Mrs.  Barnes  seemed  really  more  excited  than  her 
daughter  after  the  artist's  departure.  Indeed,  Ruth 
went  with  slow,  reluctant  feet  toward  the  Bird  House 
that  afternoon.  She  felt  oddly  shy,  and  a  bit 
frightened,  as  if  she  had  made  a  surrender  of  some- 
thing personal  and  precious,  she  knew  not  quite 
what.  She  was  no  longer  angry  at  Uncle  Alec. 
She  didn't  doubt  that  Robert  Eliot  truly  wanted  to 
paint  her  picture,  and  that  he  was  too  honest  even 
to  surmise  that  a  scheme  had  been  put  upon  him. 
And  that  made  matters  worse,  because  now  she  was 
a  partner  to  the  scheme.  Therefore  she  couldn't 
be  angry  at  Uncle  Alec,  which  made  her  angry  at 
herself.  Besides,  she  wanted  to  go — oh,  she  wanted 
to  go! 


30  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

And  she  went.  Uncle  Alec  was  in  the  dining- 
room  when  she  entered.  He  had  been  correcting 
proofs.  There  was  also  a  fresh  batch  of  manu- 
script by  the  typewriter  for  her  to  copy.  "More 
work  for  you,"  he  said.  "But  now  for  the  picture. 
I'm  getting  quite  excited  about  this  myself." 

He  was  puffing  at  his  pipe  while  Eliot  posed  her, 
reset  the  blue  jay  a  dozen  times,  spaced  the  Audubon 
plate  better  to  suit  him  on  the  wall,  adjusted  and 
readjusted  the  shades,  and  finally,  when  everything 
suited  him,  marked  the  spot  for  each  object,  even 
Ruth's  feet,  with  chalk,  and  fell  eagerly  to  work, 
first  throwing  his  coat  into  a  corner  and  rolling  up 
his  sleeves. 

"  You're  not  very  polite  to  the  lady,"  said  the  older 
man. 

"Oh,  bother!"  cried  Eliot.  "We  are  working. 
Miss  Barnes  is  an  artist,  too;  she  understands. 
You  only  write  books,  what  do  you  know  about 
art?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Alec  Farnum;  "absolutely  noth- 
ing. I  merely  love  birds,  such  as  song  sparrows." 

He  beamed  on  Ruth,  who  coloured  and  looked 
straight  ahead,  in  the  pose  that  had  been  ordered. 

"I  think  I  hear  one  in  the  garden  now,"  he  added. 
"Being  evidently  in  the  way  here,  I'll  go  out  where 
I'm  appreciated." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  31 

"Good-bye,"  said  Eliot. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Alec,  don't  go!"  cried  Ruth.  "Mr. 
Eliot  is  horrid!" 

But  he  had  already  gone. 

"I  hope  you  don't  really  mind  my  working  coat- 
less  this  hot  day,"  Eliot  said.  "I'm  afraid  I  usually 
forget  to  be  polite  when  I'm  on  a  job  which  absorbs 
me." 

"I  don't  mind,"  Ruth  answered,  "when — when 
you  say  'us  artists.'" 

"But  you  don't  doubt  that  you  are  an  artist?" 

"Oh,  yes,  always!  I  want  to  be,  but  the  artists 
were  the  men  who  wrote  the  songs.  I'm  a  kind  of 
phonograph.  But  I  try  to  feel  what  they  felt  when 
they  made  the  songs,  and  to  re-create  the  mood. 
That's  something,  isn't  it?" 

She  spoke  eagerly,  forgetful  of  her  earlier  sensa- 
tions. Somehow  it  was  natural  to  talk  thus  in- 
timately to  this  man,  who  was  nearly  her  own  age 
and  who  understood.  He  answered,  and  kept  on 
painting;  and  before  she  realized  the  flight  of  time, 
or  even  how  stiff  her  body  was,  he  ordered  the  sitting 
over.  She  came  around  and  looked  at  the  sketchy 
beginnings  of  her  portrait,  listening  eagerly  to  his 
explanations.  Then  he  went  out  to  wash  his  hands 
and  on  his  return  they  tackled  Purcell.  She  had 
mastered  the  rhythmic  swing  of  "Come  unto  these 


32  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

yellow  sands,"  and  was  pouring  it  out  with  full- 
throated  abandon,  standing  close  to  Eliot  and  read- 
ing the  words  over  his  shoulder,  when  Alec  Farnum 
sneaked  back  to  the  house  and  peeped  into  the 
room.  He  withdrew  again  softly. 

Thereafter  the  picture  grew  apace,  and  Ruth  no 
longer  drew  near  the  Bird  House  with  reluctant 
feet.  She  began  to  live  for  those  sittings.  Uncle 
Alec  often  remained  in  the  room  for  an  hour  or 
more,  and  the  three  of  them  talked — a  mixture  of 
banter  and  jest  and  seriousness.  She  had  never 
been  included  in  such  talks  before — she  had  never 
heard  such  talks,  in  fact.  Should  pictures  "tell  a 
story?"  She  didn't  know  what  this  meant  at  first, 
and  the  two  men  almost  swore  at  each  other  trying 
to  explain  simultaneously.  Are  all  the  melodies  in 
the  world  used  up,  so  that  modern  music  has  to 
adopt  tone  painting  as  an  ideal?  Shall  women 
vote?  Is  Socialism  really  inimical  to  individual- 
ity, or  not?  A  thousand  topics  came  and  went  in 
these  talks,  and  Ruth  almost  felt  that  she  had  just 
begun  to  live.  Then  Uncle  Alec  would  go  out  to 
work  hi  his  shop,  or  his  garden,  and  she  would  ask 
Eliot  questions  about  some  topic  which  she  had  not 
understood,  and  he  would  answer  her  gravely,  and 
she  would  find  herself  almost  thinking  out  aloud 
to  him  as  she  struggled  to  see  things  as  he  did. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  33 

Then,  when  the  sitting  was  over,  she  would  always 
come  around  the  easel  to  see  how  the  picture  was 
growing,  standing  by  his  side,  and  after  that  they 
would  sing. 

The  picture  was  nearing  completion  now.  It  was 
going  to  be  Robert  Eliot's  bid  for  the  winter  Acad- 
emy. He  had  put  the  best  he  had  into  it,  and  he 
was  pleased  with  it — and  dissatisfied.  He  and  Ruth 
were  looking  at  it,  the  sitting  over. 

"The  glass  over  the  print  is  too  realistic,"  he  said. 
"I  want  the  whole  thing  detailed  and  yet  decora- 
tive, too,,  but  I've  got  that  photographic.  And 
you  are  not  right — your  face.  It's  not  eager  enough. 
You  are  too  still,  too  passive.  A  spark  in  the  eye, 

a  little  parting  of  the  lips Oh,  gee,  I'd  like  to 

do  it  all  over  again!" 

"I  think  it  is  lovely,  only  the  picture  of  me  isn't 
good.  That  girl  there  is — is  pretty,"  said  Ruth. 

Eliot  looked  down  at  her,  and  laughed  softly. 
"I  suppose  you  don't  know  that  you  are  lovely?" 
he  said. 

Ruth  coloured  and  dropped  her  eyes.  "I  know 
I'm  not,"  she  answered. 

"Then  you  are  strangely  ignorant/'  he  smiled, 
and  laid  his  brush  on  the  easel  rack  before  he  took 
up  her  hand.  She  shivered  at  the  touch  of  his 
fingers,  but  let  her  hand  lie  passive  in  his  while 


34  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

he  said:  "Look!  Look  at  your  own  hand,  and  your 
wrist,  and  your  arm;  aren't  they  lovely?" 

With  face  averted,  she  shook  her  head.  He 
pulled  at  her  hand  till  she  faced  the  canvas.  "Now 
look  at  the  girl  there — only  the  pale,  painted  echo 
of  you.  Isn't  she  less  beautiful  than  you  are?  " 

Still  Ruth  shook  her  head,  and  drew  her  hand 
away. 

"You  have  too  much  cosmos  in  your  ego!"  he 
laughed.  "Let  us  sing." 

Ruth  couldn't  sing  that  afternoon.  She  tried, 
but  some  emotion  choked  her.  She  failed  miser- 
ably in  her  first  attack,  and  Eliot  ran  a  glissando 
over  the  keyboard  and  faced  around  on  the  bench. 
"Hello!  "he  said. 

"I — I  can't  sing  to-day.  I  don't  know  why." 
She  had  averted  her  face.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were 
about  to  weep. 

The  man  suddenly  took  both  her  hands  in  his, 
though  she  tried  to  snatch  them  away.  "What  is 
it,  tell  me,  Ruth?"  he  said.  "It's  been  our  picture, 
and  our  songs — you  and  I  working  together.  Tell 
me." 

"Please  let  me  go!"  she  whispered,  and  suddenly 
left  him.  But  on  the  way  home  she  began  to  sing 
the  song  she  had  attempted  in  the  Bird  House,  and 
the  attack  pealed  out  quite  flawless,  to  the  astonish- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  35 

ment  of  Minnie  Sanborn  who  was  passing  on  the 
road. 

The  next  day  Alec  Farnum  lingered  when  the 
sitting  began. 

"By  the  way,  Ruth,"  he  said,  "going  to  the  dance 
to-night?  I  see  there's  to  be  one  in  the  Town  Hall." 

Ruth  shot  a  vindictive  glance  at  him.  "No," 
she  answered.  "Nobody  has  asked  me." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Tom  Cook?"  he  in- 
quired. He  watched  Eliot,  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye,  who  rewarded  him  by  pricking  up  his  ears 
immediately. 

"He's  away  camping.  Isn't  it  too  bad?"  Ruth 
answered  sweetly. 

Uncle  Alec  laughed,  and  presently  went  out  with 
a  remark  that  neither  of  them  seemed  very  enter- 
taining that  afternoon. 

When  he  had  gone,  Eliot  broke  the  silence.  "Who 
is  Tom  Cook?"  he  said  bluntly. 

Ruth  felt  suddenly  and  gloriously  coquettish. 
"Oh,  just  a  man,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  suppose  you'd  go  to  the  dance  with  me?" 

"How  can  I  tell  till  you've  asked  me?" 

"Well,  will  you?" 

"Do  you  dance  well?" 

"Oh,  fair  to  middling." 

"No,  I  won't." 


36  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Why  not?" 

Ruth  laughed,  she  laughed  gayly,  and  then  grew 
suddenly  sober.  "Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
nicer  to  sing  to  Uncle  Alec  this  evening?  We've 
not  sung  for  him  since  that  night  of  his  party,  only 
practised  afternoons.  He  loves  music,  you  know." 

"Much  nicer,"  cried  Eliot,  and  he  stopped  painting 
and  looked  into  Ruth's  eyes.  She  returned  his 
gaze  for  a  second  and  then  dropped  back  into  her 
pose,  but  the  air  was  electrical.  The  sitting  ceased 
early.  They  moved  to  the  piano.  "We  must  get 
something  ready  for  to-night"  she  said. 

He  put  "Mary  Grey  of  Allan  Dale"  on  the  rack, 
and  Ruth  sung  it  in  her  tender,  virginal  voice. 
Eliot  let  the  last  chord  die  away  slowly,  and  faced 
her. 

"Ruth!"  he  said,  and  took  her  hands.  "I  have 
painted  you  into  my  life,  into  my  heart.  Tell  me 
Tom  Cook  is  nobody!" 

She  let  her  hands  rest  in  his.  She  let  him  draw  her 
down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  she  let  her  face  fall 
against  his  shoulder,  and  with  a  thrill  words  could 
not  express  she  felt  his  arm  encircle  her. 

"There  was  never  anybody,"  she  whispered.  "Is 
it  real,  are  you  real?  Tell  me  I  shan't  wake  up." 

He  kissed  her  softly  on  the  neck  where  it  curved 
toward  her  shoulder.  "You  have  the  loveliest  little 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  37 

neck  in   the   world,"   he   said   irrelevantly.     "But 
won't  old  Uncle  Alec  be  surprised!" 

Ruth  sat  suddenly  straight  up  and  blurted  out, 
"Oh,  no,  he  won't!  Oh,  what  have  I  done!  You'll 
hate  me!  He  brought  you  here  because — because 
— well,  he  likes  me  and  he  was  afraid  I'd  like  Tom 
Cook  or  somebody  like  that.  He  meant  this  to 
happen.  I  didn't  know  he  was  going  to  bring  you. 
I  tried  to  keep  away.  I  was  ashamed.  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do!" 

She  tried  to  struggle  out  of  his  arms,  but  he  only 
held  her  faster,  and  laughed  in  her  ear.  "  The  blessed 
old  Fairy  Godfather!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  blessed 
old  matchmaker  hi  trousers!  But  how  did  he  ever 
know  God  made  us  for  each  other?" 

"You — you  don't  believe  /  had  a  hand  in  it, 
then?"  she  whispered. 

"Kiss  me!"  he  commanded. 

She  looked  up,  she  raised  her  face  toward  his, 
their  lips  met — and  as  they  parted  they  were  aware 
of  the  Bird  House  Man  coming  angrily  through  the 
door. 

"What  are  you  doing,  you  ungrateful  young 
hound?"  he  shouted.  "You  come  into  my  house  as 
a  guest  and  you  violate  my  hospitality  and  try  to 
make  off  with  my  song  sparrow!  I've  a  good  mind 
to  thrash  you  here  and  now.  Explain,  both  of  you 


38  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

— instantly!  You,  too,  Ruth!  What  do  you  mean 
by  such  conduct!" 

He  was  in  a  towering  passion  and  Eliot  rose,  pale 
and  angry  in  his  turn,  and  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak,  putting  himself  in  front  of  the  girl.  But 
Ruth  burst  out  laughing. 

"You  old  fraud!"  she  said.  "I've  told  him.  He 
knows.  He's  forgiven  you,  too,  for  which  you  ought 
to  be  thankful." 

"Well,  his  forgiveness  will  be  worth  more  ten 
years  hence,"  said  Alec  Farnum,  bursting  into  a 
broad  grin.  "Now,  you  go  home  and  bring  your 
mother  here  to  supper,  while  Rob  gets  that  chromo 
out  of  the  middle  of  the  room  and  I  get  my  one  bottle 
of  champagne  out  of  the  cellar." 

"Don't  you  call  it  a  chromo!"  said  Ruth.  "It's  a 
masterpiece!" 

"It's  a  romance!"  said  Rob. 

"It's  a  nuisance,"  said  Alec  Farnum.  "It's  a 
smelly  thing,  too." 

Ruth  went  suddenly  up  to  him,  flung  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  kissed  him.  He  patted  her 
clumsily  on  the  back,  and  when  she  had  gone  he 
wiped  his  glasses. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  WREN 

THE  Bird  House  Man's  garden,  behind  his  old- 
fashioned  house  and  his  shop  where  Farnum's  Fa- 
mous Bird  Houses  were  made,  was  white  with  snow. 
The  sundial  and  the  two  bird  baths  were  hid- 
den under  protecting  boxes.  The  flower  beds  were 
covered  with  pine  boughs,  bits  of  which  stuck  up 
above  the  drifts.  But  the  feed  tables  for  the  birds, 
including  one  which  swung  into  the  wind  by  means  of 
its  weather-vane  arms,  were  standing  about  stocked 
with  suet  and  sunflower  seeds,  and  just  now  Alec 
Farnum  himself  stood  outside  the  kitchen  door  with 
a  sunflower  seed  between  his  lips.  His  head  was 
tipped  back,  and  he  held  one  hand  in  front  of  his 
face,  with  his  forefinger  out.  There  were  excited 
sounds  and  movements  in  the  big  lilac  bush  by  the 
door,  and  suddenly  a  chickadee  made  a  dash  forth, 
lit  on  Alec's  finger  and,  as  the  man  moved  his  hand 
close  to  his  face,  took  the  seed  from  between  his 
lips  and  flew  quickly  back  to  the  bush.  The  man 
smiled,  and  was  about  to  place  another  seed  in  his 
mouth  when  around  the  corner  came  the  front  end 

SB 


40  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

of  a  dog,  followed  in  time  by  the  rest  of  him,  and  in 
sudden  fright  the  chickadees  flew  away  to  a  tree  in 
the  garden. 

"Confound  you,  Bologna,  what  did  you  come  to 
spoil  the  fun  for?"  Alec  asked  of  the  intruder. 
"Get  out!" 

He  made  as  if  to  kick  the  dachshund,  which  sidled 
off  with  a  surprised  and  pained  expression.  At  the 
same  moment  from  the  street  came  a  faint  call, 
"Friedy,Friedy!" 

The  dog  pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  guilty, 
but  did  not  stir. 

"  H'm,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man,  "none  so  deaf 

You  want  a  bone,  do  you?  Well,  you  can't  have  one. 
You've  scared  my  chickadees." 

So  saying  he  left  the  dog  to  sniff  at  the  garbage 
pail,  and  walked  around  the  corner  toward  the 
street.  Standing  on  the  sidewalk  was  a  quaint 
little  figure,  looking  up  and  down  the  snowy  road. 
She  might  have  stepped  from  the  pages  of  "Cran- 
ford,"  Alec  thought  to  himself  as  he  looked  at  her, 
she  was  so  obviously  an  "unappropriated  blessing." 
She  was  small  and  neat;  no,  neat  wasn't  the  word, 
he  reflected.  Her  hat  was  even  stylish.  She  was 
trim.  Her  heavy  hair  beneath  the  hat  was  still  a 
golden  chestnut,  though  a  trifle  rusty.  Once  it 
had  hung  in  two  long  braids  which  Alec  used  to 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  41 

pull  in  school  when  she  was  a  little  thing  and  he  was 
one  of  the  big  boys,  born  to  torment.  Her  eyes 
were  very  large.  Once  they  must  have  been  a 
glory,  but  now  that  her  face  had  shrunk  they  gave 
her  an  odd,  wistful  expression,  intensified  at  the 
present  moment,  as  she  turned  to  meet  Alec's  gaze, 
by  her  worry  over  the  loss  of  her  pet. 

"Oh,  Alec,  have  you  seen  him?"  she  exclaimed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Millie,  has  the  sausage  man 
got  Bologna  at  last?"  Alec  replied.  "It's  an  out- 
rage, that's  what  it  is!" 

A  faint  smile  crept  into  Miss  Millie  Tilton's  face. 
"You  are  perfectly  horrid,"  she  said.  "You  know 
his  name  is  Siegfried.  But  where  is  he?  I  shouldn't, 
have  let  him  off  the  leash.  He  always  misbehaves 
on  cold  days.  Here,  Friedy,  Friedy!" 

Friedy  suddenly  appeared  around  the  corner  of 
the  house,  hauling  his  rear  legs  behind  him,  with  a 
suspicious  stain  of  garbage  in  either  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

"Oh,  you  nasty  dog!"  said  Miss  Millie. 

"You  may  break,  you  may  train  up  the  dog  as  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  garbage  will  call  to  him  still," 

said  Alec. 

"But  he  gets  such  nice  food  at  home,"  said  the 
woman  plaintively.  "I  go  out  to  Mulready's  cart 


42  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

myself  and  select  it.  I  think  dogs  are  very  un- 
grateful— so  there,  Friedy." 

She  bent  and  slapped  the  dog  as  she  spoke,  the  dog 
construing  it  as  a  caress  and  licking  his  chops. 

"They're  only  human,  after  all,"  said  the  Bird 
House  Man.  "Come  in  and  have  some  tea,  Millie. 
It's  a  cold  day." 

"Oh,  Alec,  what  an  idea!"  she  exclaimed,  look- 
ing at  him  with  her  big  eyes. 

"Now,  Millie,  you've  been  reading  modern  dramas 
again,"  said  he.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where 
you  get  'em.  There's  nothing  modern  in  our  public 
library.  You  think  it  would  be  a  regular  third  act 
if  you  came  in  and  drank  tea  with  me." 

"I  should  say  an  irregular  act,"  said  Miss  Millie, 
with  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle. 

The  Bird  House  Man  laughed  jovially.  He  al- 
ways laughed  when  Miss  Millie  made  a  joke,  and 
treasured  it  to  repeat  to  his  friend,  Thomas  Trask, 
the  new  doctor. 

"How  long  since  you've  committed  an  irregular 
act?"  he  asked. 

"I  never  did,"  the  woman  retorted.  "I  never 
dared,  in  Southmead."  She  spoke  in  a  low,  con- 
fidential tone. 

"Well,  far  be  it  from  me  to  start  an  innocent 
young  female  on  a  career  of  crime,"  said  Alec,  "so 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  43 

I'll  tell  you  that  Ruth  Barnes  is  inside,  typing  a  new 
article  for  me,  so  you  can  come  in  for  some  tea  after 
all." 

"Oh,  is  Ruth  there?  She's  going  to  be  married 
next  summer,  isn't  she?  Is  he  as  nice  as  he  looks?" 

"Not  nice  enough  for  Ruth — nobody  is,"  said 
Alec,  opening  the  door  for  her  with  his  air  of  old- 
fashioned  gallantry. 

They  heard  the  measured  click,  click  of  the  type- 
writer keys  as  they  stepped  into  the  house,  and 
went  to  the  library  where  Ruth  was  working.  But 
she  refused  to  stop,  only  rising  to  kiss  Miss  Millie 
on  the  cheek.  "I've  got  to  get  this  done  by  day- 
light, Uncle  Alec,"  she  declared.  "You  haven't 
had  the  drop-light  fixed  yet,  you  know.  Goodness, 
I  don't  know  what  the  house  will  be  like  after  I'm 


gone 


"Like  any  empty  bird's  nest,"  said  Alec  Farnum 
fondly,  as  he  escorted  Miss  Millie  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  he  always  had  tea  served  on  his  old 
mahogany  table.  Siegfried  followed,  and  immedi- 
ately made  a  wad  of  the  hearth  rug  and  plumped 
upon  it. 

"Oh,  dear,  he's  the  worst  dog!"  said  his  mistress. 

"You  mean  the  wienerwurst,"  laughed  Alec,  call- 
ing to  Mrs.  Plumb  for  the  tea. 

Miss  Millie  pouted  at  him  with  a  curious  girlish- 


44  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

ness  that  belied  her  years,  but  she  did  not  en- 
deavour to  reply.  Evidently  she  felt  the  task  hope- 
less. 

"And  now,  Millie,"  said  the  big  man  beside  her 
at  the  table,  when  he  had  seen  her  wants  supplied, 
"what's  on  your  mind?" 

She  seemed  undeniably  startled,  and  her  big  eyes 
sought  his  for  a  second,  and  then  fell.  "Why — 
no-nothing.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Ho,  so  there  is  something,  eh?"  said  he.  "Well, 
why  shouldn't  you  tell  me?  'Most  everybody  else 
in  this  town  does!  Carrie  Potter  came  to  me  this 
morning  to  know  where  she  was  to  get  a  baby  car- 
riage on  runners  big  enough  to  hold  her  twins.  I 
told  her  she  had  no  business  to  have  twins,  on  her 
husband's  income — 

Miss  Millie  was  blushing,  and  the  Bird  House 
Man  broke  off.  "H'm — modern  plays  again,"  he 
smiled.  "Well,  Millie,  what  is  on  your  mind? 
You  don't  own  New  Haven  shares,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  thank  goodness!"  she  replied.  "Dear 
papa  did  not  leave  me  much,  as  you  may  have 
guessed.  The  emoluments  of  teaching  and  litera- 
ture are  not  great,  as  he  used  to  say  so  often.  But 
what  he  did  leave  was  invested  in  bonds.  Dear 
papa  was  very  conservative." 

"Yes,  I  recall  he  was,  especially  about  my  marks 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  45 

in  school,"  said  Alec  Farnum.  "How  much  did  he 
leave  you?" 

It  was  not  the  sort  of  a  question  most  people 
could  have  asked  of  Miss  Millie  Tilton  with  im- 
punity, but  Alec  seemed  to  await  her  reply  quite 
confidently. 

"Twelve  thousand  dollars,"  she  said. 

"And  your  income  is  about  six  hundred  dollars 
a  year?" 

"Five  hundred  and  sixty." 

"Well,  Millie,  that's  not  so  bad,"  smiled  the  man. 
"You  can  buy  an  automobile  and  a  portable  garage 
nowadays  for  that.  Is  it  the  make  of  car  that's 
troubling  you?" 

"I  don't  want  a  car,"  she  answered,  with  the 
utmost  solemnity;  "I  want  a  home!" 

Alec  Farnum  looked  at  her,  and  saw  at  once  that 
he  had  stumbled  on  the  truth.  His  brow  contracted 
and  he  stroked  his  grizzled  goatee  a  long  moment 
in  silence,  while  the  brisk  click  of  the  typewriter 
under  Ruth's  agile  young  fingers  came  through  the 
open  door  from  the  study. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  Cousin  Sarah's?" 
he  asked  presently. 

Miss  Millie  took  an  oatmeal  cake  daintily  between 
her  fingers  and  bit  it  before  she  replied.  There  was 
almost  an  audacious  light  in  her  big  eyes. 


46  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Cousin  Sarah,  for  one  thing,"  she  said. 

Alec  Farnum  tipped  back  his  head  and  laughed 
again,  so  loudly  that  the  sound  of  the  typewriter 
ceased  and  Siegfried  got  up  and  walked  slowly  around 
the  table,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Cousin  Sarah?"  he 
asked  presently. 

"Well,  she's  an  anti,  for  one  thing,"  Miss  Millie 
replied. 

The  man  was  too  genuinely  astonished  this  time 
to  laugh.  "Of  course  she  is,"  said  he.  "But  you 
— you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you " 

"Certainly  I  am!"  retorted  Miss  Millie  with  great 
spirit.  "See!"  She  threw  open  her  jacket  and  dis- 
played upon  her  waist  a  yellow  "Votes  for  Women" 
pin.  "I  consider  that  I'm  quite  as  capable  of  vot- 
ing intelligently  as  some  of  the  men  hi  this  town!" 

"Certainly  you  are — my  Lord,  yes!"  exclaimed 
Alec.  "But  do  you  want  to?" 

"Not  particularly,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her 
ghosts  of  a  smile.  "But  I  don't  want  to  be  told 
that  I'm  not  good  enough  to.  Besides,  it's  lots  of 
fun  wearing  this  button  in  front  of  some  people  we 
could  name." 

Alec  smiled.  "  What  first  made  you  a  suffragist?  *' 
he  asked. 

"Sarah,"  Miss  Millie-  replied. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  47 

Again  the  Bird  House  Man  tipped  back  his  head 
and  laughed.  He  was  having  a  delightful  time  ap- 
parently. "Well,  well,"  he  said,  "the  antis  always 
are  the  strongest  speakers  for  the  cause,  they  tell 
me.  What  else  has  Sarah  done?" 

"She  doesn't  like  Siegfried,  she  isn't  nice  to  him," 
said  Miss  Millie. 

"Not  nice  to  Bologna?  The  idea!  Such  a  beau- 
tiful dog,  too,  with  his  gazelle-like  gait!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  what  you  say,"  the  woman 
retorted.  "You  know,  when  Pitti-Sing,  my  Jap- 
anese poodle,  died,  Sarah  wanted  me  to  get  a 
canary.  She  said  it  would  be  better  company  for 
me,  because  its  sounds  were  more  musical.  What 
she  really  meant  was  that  she  didn't  want  me  to 
have  a  dog  at  all." 

"Poor  Katisha — I  mean  Pitti-Sing,"  said  Alec 
Farnum.  "She  was  such  a  sweet,  fat  thing,  too, 
with  her  broken  nose  and  that  one  flea  neither  she 
nor  you  could  ever  catch.  I  always  did  admire  the 
woodcraft  of  that  flea!  What  else  has  Sarah  done?" 

"Well,  I  don't  like  her  tea.  You  have  such  nice 
tea,  by  the  way,  Alec." 

Alec  nodded  in  acknowledgment.  "I'm  very 
particular  about  it,"  said  he,  "since  that  Doctor 
Trask  person  made  me  give  up  my  Bourbon.  I  can 
understand  your  feelings  toward  anybody  who  serves 


48  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

the  English  breakfast  variety.  Do  you  suppose  the 
entire  British  breakfast  is  as  bad  as  the  tea?  What 
else  has  Sarah  done?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  what  she  has  done"  Miss  Millie  burst 
out  suddenly,  as  if  a  dam  of  silence  had  given  way, 
behind  which  a  reservoir  of  feelings  had  been  long 
pent  up.  "Sarah  just  is.  She  gets  on  my  nerves 
— there,  I've  said  it,  and  I  feel  better!  She  just 
naturally  takes  the  contrary  side,  and  she  always 
thinks  the  worst  of  people  she  possibly  can,  and 
she  thinks  anybody  who  doesn't  get  up  at  six-thirty 
— who  doesn't  like  to  get  up  at  six-thirty — is  a  lost 
soul,  and — and — and  I  want  a  house,  a  whole  house, 
of  my  own,  where  I  can  do  as  I  please  and  have 
what  I  want  to  eat  when  I  want  it,  and  not  talk 
for  hours,  and  keep  another  dog  to  play  with 
Friedy." 

Little  Miss  Millie's  eyes  were  very  big,  and  sus- 
piciously moist,  as  she  half  hid  her  face  over  her 
teacup. 

Alec  Farnum  played  a  tattoo  with  his  fingertips 
on  the  table.  "H'm,"  said  he.  "You  pay  Sarah 
board,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"How  much?" 

"Six  dollars  a  week.  I  have  a  big  room  of  my  own, 
to  be  sure;  but  if  she  wants  to  talk  she  just  comes 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  49 

right  in  and  begins  to  dust,  and  she  makes  an  awful 
fuss  if  I  sit  up  after  nine  o'clock." 

"Six  dollars  a  week,"  Alec  reflected.  "Your  in- 
come is  a  bit  over  ten  dollars  a  week,  isn't  it?  Doesn't 
leave  you  much  for  cigarettes  and  champagne. 
How  do  you  manage  always  to  look  so  stylish?" 

Miss  Millie  blushed  like  a  girl.  "I  have  a  knack," 
she  said. 

"You  have,  indeed.  Did  you  ever  try  to  get  a 
house  of  your  own?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  looked  about.  But  it  would  have 
to  be  a  very  tiny  house  that  I  could  take  care  of 
myself  and  that  wouldn't  cost  much  to  heat,  and 
you  know  there  aren't  any  such  houses  in  town, 
which  I  could  live  in.  The  only  ones  of  that  sort 
are — are  hovels,  inhabited  by  the  lowest  of  the  work- 
ing classes." 

"True,"  said  Alec,  "and  we  have  no  New  York 
apartments  in  Southmead,  either,  like  swallows' 
nests  in  a  cliff.  Have  you  got  any  furniture  to  put 
in  a  house?" 

"Oh,  yes,  after  dear  papa  died  and  I  had  to  go  to 
live  with  Sarah,  I  saved  some  furniture  from  the 
sale.  Sarah  has  been  glad  enough  to  use  it  in  her 
house,  you  may  be  sure!  I  shall  never  part  with  it. 
Some  day " 

Miss  Millie  broke  off  abruptly. 


50  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Millie,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man,  "you  should 
have  got  married — no,  I've  not  phrased  that  right, 
you  should  get  married." 

The  woman  turned  her  big  eyes  upon  him  with  a 
strange  look  of  startled  shyness. 

"Oh,  Alec,"  she  answered,  very  low,  "how  can  you 
say  that?  You " 

"Ruth  tells  me  I  should  have  married,  too,"  he 
replied.  "I  think  she  doesn't  know.  Some  day 
I  shall  tell  her." 

"About  Elsie?" 

"About  Elsie.  She  doesn't  know  that  once  I 
dreamed  of  bringing  Elsie  here,  to  the  house  of  my 
fathers  that — that  Elsie's  presence  has  peopled  these 
rooms." 

"And  yet  you  say  I  should  have  married!" 

"Even  if  you  are  a  suffragist,"  said  Alec  with  a 
little  smile,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  that  in  a  woman*s 
case  it  is  different.  A  man  has  plenty  of  resources 
outside  of  marriage,  a  woman  few,  at  least  a  woman 
like  you  in  Southmead,  Millie.  Now,  if  you  could 
take  a  big  house  and  board  all  the  teachers,  that 
would  be  a  fine  thing  for  you  and  the  teachers  both, 
and " 

"No,  it  wouldn't,"  she  said.  "I  should  worry 
myself  to  death,  and  probably  the  teachers  would 
starve." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  51 

"I  suppose  so,"  the  man  smiled;  "which  proves  my 
point.  So  you  live  with  Cousin  Sarah  and  take 
Bologna  out  for  exercise.  No,  you  should  have 
married.  What's  Bologna?  You  should  have  had 
children " 

"Don't,  Alec,  don't!"  came  a  low  voice. 

Alec  put  out  his  big  hand  and  patted  hers  under 
the  table.  "That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "Let's 
talk  about  it,  both  of  us.  It  will  make  us  feel 
better." 

"I've — I've  got  a  whole  trunk  full  of  linen  up  in 
Sarah's  attic,"  she  said.  "It's  locked.  Sarah  thinks 
it  is  stuff  from  papa's  house.  I've  never  told  her. 
It  was  linen  for — for  our  home.  I  hemmed  all  the 
napkins.  They  are  lovely,  too.  Albert  used  to 
laugh  at  me — he  said  it  would  be  cheaper  to  buy  them. 
But  that  wouldn't  be  the  same,  would  it?" 

"No,  no,  of  course  not." 

"  We  used  to  plan  to  have  a  house  some  day  like 
the  old  Dwight  place,  with  big  columns  in  front.  It 
was  such  fun!  Albert  would  draw  pictures  of  it. 
I  have  one  of  them  now — I  keep  it  in  a  box  with  his 
watch  and  his  silver  pencil.  His  mother  gave  those 
to  me.  You  and  she  were  the  only  ones  who  knew. 
We  were  going  to  tell  just  when " 

She  paused  and  dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. Then  she  added:  "The  drawing  is  all 


52  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

cracking  along  the  folds.  Do  you  think  I  could 
paste  it  on  a  piece  of  cardboard?  " 

"I'm  sure  you  could,"  said  Alec  Farnum,  averting 
his  face. 

"You — you  have  the  house  you  planned  for  Elsie," 
Miss  Millie  went  on,  "before  she — she " 

"Before  she  ran  away,"  the  man  helped  her.  "Say 
it,  Millie.  There  used  to  be  no  secrets  between  us 
four  in  those  far-off  years,  when  we  were  young  and 
had  dreams  and  passions.  Those  far-off  years " 

"Oh,  Alec,  what  has  become  of  our  youth,  of  our 
dreams?"  she  suddenly  said  with  a  little  wail. 
"You  think  I  do  nothing  but  exercise  Friedy.  I 
— I — am  housekeeper  for  a  memory!" 

Again  he  patted  her  hand  under  the  table,  and 
they  were  both  silent. 

Just  then   Ruth   came  breezily   into   the   room. 

'Well,  you  two  are  a  long  while  about  your  tea!" 

she  cried  cheerfully.     "It's  getting  dark,   and  no 

lights  on,  either!     I've  finished  the  article,  Uncle 

Alec." 

"Good  for  you,  Ruth,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man; 
"run  and  get  some  fresh  tea  for  yourself,  will  you?" 

"I  will  that,"  she  laughed,  "for  your  article  was 
awfully  technical — and  dry."  She  picked  up  an 
oatmeal  cookie  along  with  the  teapot,  and  stuffed 
it  hungrily  into  her  mouth. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  53 

Miss  Millie  quickly  dried  her  tears  while  Ruth  was 
gone,  and  they  were  both  looking  at  her  when  she 
returned,  a  tall,  straight,  girlish  figure,  healthy  and 
happy  and  young — and  they  were  both  thinking  the 
same  thoughts. 

That  night  Alec  Farnum  sat  with  Dr.  Thomas 
Trask  in  the  library  of  the  Bird  House,  before  a 
roaring  fire.  The  two  men  stretched  out  in  comfort- 
able male  fashion  in  easy  chairs,  and  both  were  smok- 
ing pipes. 

"A  wren,  that's  what  she  is — a  poor  little  wren 
twittering  under  alien  eaves  with  no  place  to  build 
her  nest,"  Alec  Farnum  was  saying. 

"Can't  you  find  her  a  husband?"  asked  the  doc- 
tor, who  was  a  youngish  man  with  a  lank  body,  a 
dark,  thin  face,  and  merry  eyes. 

"It  would  be  easier  to  build  her  a  house,"  the  other 
replied.  "  Yes,  that's  what  I've  decided  to  do.  You 
know  this  place  next  to  mine  is  for  sale.  There  is 
about  a  two-hundred-foot  frontage  with  the  present 
dwelling  at  one  side.  I'm  going  to  build  her  a  little 
house  all  her  own  on  the  side  toward  my  place  and 
rent  it  to  her.  Of  course  she  can't  afford  to  build 
one  for  herself.  She  can't  touch  any  of  that  twelve 
thousand  dollar  capital.  It's  all  she  has  to  live  on." 

"What  is  it — 'the  emoluments  of  teaching  and 
literature?'  What  did  dear  papa  write?" 


54  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"A  history  of  Southmead  antiquities,"  laughed 
Alec,  "and  some  poems.  I  actually  believe  the 
good  man  paid  to  have  'em  printed.  I've  got  a 
copy  somewhere.  You  know  the  kind — in  the  style 
of  Pope.  Shelley  and  Wordsworth  might  never  have 
lived  for  all  the  influence  they  had  on  a  certain  type 
of  New  Englander  fifty  years  ago.  He  was  a  good 
teacher,  though,  of  the  old-fashioned  school.  He 
got  me  into  Amherst,  which  was  something  of  a  feat. 
Loved  opera,  too,  especially  Wagner,  in  his  last 
years,  which  was  curious.  Once  he  took  Millie  to 
New  York  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  they  heard 
'Siegfried,'  the  *  Valkyrie,'  'Lucia,'  and  'The  Mikado,' 
in  one  wild  debauch.  She's  named  all  her  dogs  after 
operatic  characters  ever  since.  Poor  Millie ! " 

"But  can  she  afford  to  rent  a  house?"  the  doctor 
asked,  resuming  the  original  thread. 

"She  can  of  me,"  smiled  Alec.  "I  can  buy  the 
place  for  eight  thousand  dollars  and  build  her  a  house 
for  two  thousand  dollars.  That  makes  ten  thousand 
dollars.  I'll  get  four  hundred  or  five  hundred  dollars 
a  year  rent  out  of  the  house  that's  now  on  it,  and  charge 
her — let  me  see — well,  about  ten  dollars  a  month, 
maybe.  Oh,  I'm  a  shrewd  business  man,  I  won't 
lose  anything!" 

"So  I  see!  I  suppose  you'll  also  give  her  vege- 
tables out  of  your  garden?" 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  55 

"Yes,  surely,  and  apples  and  potatoes.  Bless  you, 
I  have  more  than  I  know  what  to  do  with,  always." 

The  doctor  smiled.  "Pity  you  haven't  got  a  coal 
mine  on  the  place,"  said  he. 

"Tommy,  you  strangely  fail  to  understand  the 
subtleties  of  life  in  Southmead,"  said  the  Bird  House 
Man.  "  It  would  be  charity  to  give  her  coal." 

The  doctor  smiled  again.  "  I'm  learning,"  he  said. 
"Does  she  know  of  your  decision?" 

"Mercy,  no!  She  won't  till  the  house  is  begun. 
Then  she  shall  see  the  plans.  Neither  do  you  know 
it.  You've  not  heard  a  word.  And,  especially,  you 
never  even  guessed  the  real  secret  of  the  little  wren 
— that  in  this  dwelling  she  will  housekeep  for  a 
memory,  for  the  ghost  of  a  dear  fellow  who  lies  up 
the  road  there  under  a  white  stone  surrounded  by 
your  patients.  He  was  my  best  friend  in  my  boy- 
hood." 

"So  that  is  it?"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  the 
older  man  with  undisguised  affection.  "You  can 
rely  on  my  professional  ethics,  even  if  you  don't  on 
my  professional  ability."  He  laughed  quietly  and 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

A  few  days  later  Alec  Farnum  bought  the  prop- 
erty adjoining  his  own,  and  when  he  returned  from 
his  next  lecture  trip  he  brought  a  roll  of  blue  prints 
and  summoned  Ruth  and  Miss  Millie  to  a  confer- 


56  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

ence.  When  the  prints  were  spread  on  the  table, 
the  corners  weighted  with  teacups,  and  the  women 
knew  what  they  meant,  Ruth  threw  her  arms  about 
the  man's  neck  and  kissed  him.  Then  she  told 
Miss  Millie  she  ought  to  do  the  same,  much  to  that 
lady's  evident  embarrassment. 

"I — I  do  feel  as  if  I  ought  to,  really,"  she  said,  and 
her  faded  cheeks  blushed  rosy. 

"Don't  hesitate  at  all,  Millie,"  laughed  the  Bird 
House  Man.  "Ruth  will  never  tell." 

It  was  an  excited  conference  which  followed. 
Miss  Millie  timidly,  but  with  flushed,  eager  face, 
made  suggestions  about  closets,  and  Ruth  insisted 
on  a  larger  bathroom  at  the  expense  of  the  guest- 
chamber.  "Because  Miss  Millie  will  take  a  bath 
oftener  than  she'll  have  guests,"  she  said,  to  Miss 
Millie's  embarrassment,  and  the  conference  pres- 
ently broke  up,  all  three  plotters  pledged  to  secrecy. 

"I  don't  know  what  Sarah  will  say  when  slie 
hears!"  poor  Miss  Millie  declared,  the  joy  going  out 
of  her  eyes. 

"You  leave  Sarah  to  me,"  said  Alec  Farnum. 

Work  on  the  Wren's  Nest,  as  Alec  always  called 
it  thereafter,  began  as  soon  as  the  frost  was  out  of 
the  ground,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  Miss  Millie's 
Cousin  Sarah  and  all  the  town  as  well  knew  what  the 
operations  meant.  It  was  never  discovered  who 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  57 

told.  Doctor  Trask  swore  he  never  did.  Ruth 
swore  she  never  did.  The  Bird  House  Man  swore 
he  never  did.  Miss  Millie  was  quite  positive  that 
she  had  never  given  the  slightest  intimation. 

"It  must  have  been  Bologna,"  Alec  declared. 

Cousin  Sarah  descended  upon  Alec  almost  im- 
mediately, finding  him  busy  in  his  shop  filling  a  rush 
order  for  martins'  houses,  from  a  city  park. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Alec  Farnum,"  she  cried, 
storming  through  the  door,  "by  putting  this  silly 
notion  into  Millie's  head  that  she's  going  to  keep 
house  by  herself?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sarah,  by  laying  it  off  on 
me?"  he  answered,  still  busy  with  his  saw.  "Millie's 
old  enough  to  have  a  few  ideas  of  her  own." 

"She's  old  enough,  Lord  knows!  But  she's  never 
had  'em.  You  know  perfectly  well  that  she  never 
had  an  idea  of  her  own  in  her  life." 

Alec  laid  down  his  saw  and  regarded  the  plain, 
square- jawed  woman  in  front  of  him,  whose  habitual 
expression  might  best  be  described  as  one  of  aggres- 
sive discontent. 

"Well,  now,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that," 
he  replied.  "She  showed  a  good  bit  of  initiative  in 
getting  a  dachshund  instead  of  a  canary." 

"Humph,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  "I  always  suspected 
you  put  her  up  to  that ! " 


58  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Perish  the  thought!"  he  cried.  "I  should  have 
suggested  a  Great  Dane.  Little  Millie  being  tugged 
along  the  street  by  a  Great  Dane  would  be  a  sight 
worth  seeing.  It  would  be  like  a  sloop  yacht  towed 
by  the  Mauretania." 

"Humph!"  said  Miss  Sarah  again.  "We  are 
getting  away  from  the  point,  which  is  that  Millie 
isn't  going  into  this  foolish  scheme." 

"Oh,  is  that  the  point?  Well,  then,  it's  between 
you  and  her.  Why  drag  me  in?  She's  signed  the 
lease  for  five  years,  and  I  agree  to  have  the  house 
ready  for  occupancy  on  July  first.  It's  purely  busi- 
ness on  my  part,  I  assure  you.  Of  course,  if  she — 
or  you — wants  to  pay  the  forfeit  to  get  out  of  the 
lease,  why " 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Alec,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Well,  I  should  be  one  if  I  put  up  a  special  house  for  a 
special  tenant,  and  then  let  'em  back  out,  now  wouldn't 
I  be?  "  He  began  to  hammer  a  nail  energetically. 

"Yes,  you  would,  if  she'd  asked  you  to  put  it 
up.  But  she  didn't.  You  needn't  try  to  bamboozle 
me.  Millie  ain't  fit  to  take  care  of  a  house  by  her- 
self, and  live  all  alone.  Besides,  it  ain't  safe  or 
proper.  She's  my  kith  and  kin,  not  yours,  and  I 
feel  responsible  for  her." 

Alec  was  tempted  to  say,  "For  six  dollars  per," 
but  he  refrained. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  59 

"No,  she's  not  my  kith  and  kin,"  he  answered; 
"but  the  fact  that  she's  yours  doesn't  give  you  any 
right  to  deny  her  the  freedom  to  live  her  life  as  she 
chooses.  She  chooses  to  have  a  house  of  her  own, 
for  reasons  best  known  to  herself,  and  I'm  going  to 
help  her  have  it.  That's  flat,  Sarah." 

Alec's  jaw  could  set  as  squarely  as  Miss  Sarah's, 
and  she  evidently  realized  it  as  she  looked  at 
him. 

"Well,  it's  a  mighty  high-handed,  interferin'  pro- 
ceeding, that's  all  I  can  say!"  she  exclaimed. 

"You'll  have  no  trouble  getting  another  boarder," 
Alec  added  with  a  smile. 

"It's  one  thing  to  make  a  home  for  your  cousin; 
it's  quite  another  to  take  boarders,"  she  replied. 

"Well,  that's  true,  too,"  said  he,  laying  down  his 
hammer  thoughtfully.  "Still,  Sarah,  I  don't  hon- 
estly think  a  little  humility  will  hurt  you  a  bit." 

"Don't  you?  Well,  I  don't  think  a  few  manners 
would  hurt  you  a  bit.  Good  morning!" 

She  flounced  with  stiff  dignity  from  the  shop,  and 
Alec  resumed  his  work,  with  a  frown  between  his 
eyes. 

"Oh,  this  pride!"  he  said  to  Ruth  when  she  came 
in  presently  to  tell  him  that  Rob  Eliot  had  sold  an- 
other picture  and  was  coming  up  to  spend  Sunday. 
"This  pride!  Of  course,  poor  Millie  could  no  more 


60  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

earn  her  living  than  a  child.  But  that  Sarah  person 
— why  shouldn't  she  work  like  the  rest  of  us?" 

"There's  not  much  money  in  one  boarder,"  said 
Ruth.  "I  know  her;  she  doesn't  want  to  lose  Miss 
Millie's  furniture.  Hah*  the  best  things  in  her  house 
belong  to  Miss  Millie.  And  she  doesn't  want  to 
lose  that  twelve  thousand  dollars.  She  thinks  if 
Miss  Millie  goes  away  she  wouldn't  get  the  money 
if  her  cousin  should  die." 

"It  takes  a  woman  to  think  of  a  thing  like  that!" 
exclaimed  Alec.  "Do  you  know,  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  me?" 

"It  wouldn't — to  your"  Ruth  laughed.  "Are  you 
going  to  stop  building?" 

"Are  you  going  to  be  sorry  to  see  Rob  again?" 
he  answered,  and  smiled  at  the  gladness  he  saw  in  her 
eyes. 

The  Wren's  Nest  went  up  apace,  and  Miss  Millie 
and  Bologna  watched  every  stage  of  the  process. 
There  was  no  house  in  Southmead  quite  like  it — 
so  small  yet  so  pretty.  It  was  two  stories  and  a  half 
high,  and  stood  beneath  a  great  elm  tree.  Down- 
stairs there  was  a  tiny  hall,  a  sitting-room  with  a 
tiny  fireplace,  a  dining-room  big  enough  to  get  a 
table  in,  a  kitchen  big  enough  to  get  a  range  in,  and 
a  tiny  rear  hall  where  the  ice  box  was  to  be  kept, 
together  with  a  tiny  pantry.  Upstairs  the  plans 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  61 

called  for  two  chambers,  a  bathroom,  and  a  huge 
closet — relatively  huge,  at  least.  The  stairs  to  the 
attic  went  up  out  of  this  closet,  and  there  was  a 
window  in  it.  It  was  Miss  Millie's  own  idea.  As 
soon  as  the  carpenters  had  built  the  frame  of  the 
stairs  from  the  lower  hall,  she  ascended,  with  Ruth 
to  steady  her,  over  the  loose  boards,  Siegfried  wad- 
dling on  behind,  and  gazed  lovingly  at  that 
closet. 

"It's  almost  a  room!"  she  breathed  ecstatically. 
"And  think  how  light  it  will  be!  You  can  see  every 
moth!" 

"You  won't  have  any  moths  in  a  new  house," 
said  Ruth. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  we  have  moths  always  with  us, 
like  the  poor,"  said  Miss  Millie. 

The  Wren's  .Nest  was  completed  spot  on  time, 
and  spot  on  time  Miss  Millie  arrived,  bag  and 
baggage,  preceded  several  days,  however,  by  the 
bulk  of  her  furniture  (it  didn't  take  much  to  furnish 
the  Wren's  Nest)  and  all  her  new  curtains,  which 
she  had  been  busily  engaged  upon  for  weeks  before. 
Her  Cousin  Sarah  had  relented  somewhat,  and  had 
helped  her  hang  these  curtains  and  do  the  cleaning, 
which  Alec  thought  very  handsome  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

"You  know,  Ruth,"  he  said,  "Sarah  can  hardly 


fl«  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

construe  it  as  a  compliment  that  Millie  doesn't  want 
to  live  with  her." 

"Handsome!"  sniffed  the  girl.  "She's  afraid  not 
to  keep  some  string  on  that  twelve  thousand  dollars! 
I  hope  Miss  Millie  lives  years  and  years  longer  than 
she  does!" 

"A  very  unchristian  thought,  and  I'm  ashamed  of 
you,"  said  Alec  Farnum  with  great  severity. 

On  the  evening  of  July  first  he  and  Ruth  and  Rob 
Eliot  (who  had  arrived  for  the  summer,  and  who 
hoped  with  the  proceeds  of  his  summer  painting  to 
marry  Ruth  in  the  autumn,  for  the  poor  fellow  had 
not  done  so  well  that  winter  as  he  expected)  went 
ceremoniously  up  the  steps  of  the  Wren's  Nest  and 
pushed  the  bell,  being  greeted  by  the  yips  of  Siegfried 
behind  the  screen  door. 

"Now,  Rob,  you  must  be  very  nice  to  her,"  Ruth 
whispered.  "Never  mind  if  I  did  get  most  of  her 
supper  and  you  did  stack  all  her  kindlings  an  hour 
ago,  we  come  ceremoniously  now,  as  if  we'd  never 
seen  the  house." 

Miss  Millie  was  heard  coming  to  the  door. 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man.  "Is 
this  the  home  of  Miss  Tilton?  " 

Miss  Millie  laughed. 

"Is  she  at  home?" 

Miss  Millie  giggled. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  OS 

"Ah,  you  are  she?  May  I  present  my  young 
friends,  Paul  and  Virginia.  We  have  come  to  view 
your  palatial  abode,  and  pay  our  compliments  to  its 
charming  mistress." 

They  all  came  in  and  inspected  the  house  with  the 
utmost  gravity,  Miss  Millie  running  ahead,  apologiz- 
ing for  the  clutter — "You  know,  it  takes  such  a  while 
to  get  settled,  even  in  a  small  house" — and  Siegfried 
getting  under  everybody's  feet,  till  finally  he  had 
to  be  deposited  by  force  upon  his  little  cushion  on 
the  end  of  the  parlour  sofa. 

The  house  was  voted  an  unqualified  success,  and 
then  Miss  Millie  produced  two  bottles  of  ginger  ale 
from  her  tiny  ice  box,  and  fluttered  in  with  them 
upon  a  tray.  She  got  Alec  aside  presently.  "I 
want  to  give  a  dinner  party  to-morrow  night,"  she 
whispered.  "You  and  me,  and  those  two.  They 

are  young,  they  are  so  in  love I  want  to  have 

my — my  napkins  on  the  table.  Do  you  think  they 
will  come?  Al — Albert  would  have  liked  me  to  do 
it,  don't  you  think?" 

The  Bird  House  Man  patted  her  hand.  "He 
would,  Millie,  I  know,"  said  he  softly.  "We'll be 
here." 

They  all  were.  Ruth  was  there  early  and  helped 
Miss  Millie  get  the  dinner.  When  Alec  and  Rob 
came  from  the  Bird  House  at  seven  o'clock  there 


64  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

were  candles  on  the  table  in  the  tiny  dining-room 
and  linen  which  Alec  sniffed,  detecting  the  faint 
odour  of  lavender,  while  Ruth  and  Miss  Millie  were 
still  talking  excitedly  in  the  kitchen. 

"Thirty  years,"  he  whispered;  "thirty  years!" 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"Nothing.  I  was  just  rumbling,"  the  other 
replied.  "Do  you  suppose  we'll  really  get  anything 
to  eat?" 

"Ruth  is  a  very  good  cook,"  said  Rob  solemnly, 
and  then  grinned  when  the  Bird  House  Man  burst 
into  a  roar. 

Little  Miss  Millie  sat  at  the  head  of  her  tiny  board 
and  beamed  nervously  upon  her  guests  at  first;  but 
as  the  meal  progressed  and  nothing  went  wrong, 
and  Alec  produced  a  bottle  of  port  from  a  basket 
he  had  smuggled  in  and  they  drank  to  her  health 
and  the  health  of  her  house  and  the  talk  waxed 
merry,  Alec  Farnum  expanding  in  his  mellowest 
mood,  her  big  eyes  grew  bright  with  happiness,  her 
cheeks  grew  flushed,  and  suddenly  Alec,  looking  at 
her,  exclaimed: 

"Hello,  Millie!  I  vow  you  look  just  like  that 
picture  Sammy  took  of  you  when  you  went  to  New 
York  for  the  opera!" 

"Oh,  Alec,  that  was  twenty-five  years  ago!"  she 
said.  "I  was  just  Ruth's  age — or  a  little  older," 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  65 

she  added  honestly.     But  she  blushed  rosy  in  her 

joy- 
Ruth  wouldn't  let  her  clear  the  table.     "No,  you 
sit  with  Uncle  Alec  in  the  parlour,"  she  declared, 
"and  Rob  and  I  will  do  the  dishes." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!  In  my  house,  at  my  party? 
The  idea!" 

"Take  her  away,  Uncle  Alec,"  cried  Ruth;  and 
Alec  took  her,  his  big  arm  about  her  waist,  and 
swung  her  like  a  feather  into  the  parlour.  There 
they  sat  and  heard  the  gay  laughter  of  the  lovers  out 
in  the  kitchen,  and  spoke  little.  Only  once  she 
sighed.  "Oh,  it's  a  home  at  last,  all  my  own,  thanks 
to  you,  dear  Alec.  If — if — no,  I  won't  think  of 
that!" 

"Yes,  think  of  it  to-night,"  said  Alec  Farnum, 
patting  her  hand.  "Think  of  it.  It  will  do  you 
good." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  wept  softly,  while  the 
man  pulled  the  dog's  long  ears.  Presently  she 
looked  up  and  smiled  upon  her  friend  wistfully,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "There,  I've  put  the  Presence  away 
for  now!"  and  he  smiled  back,  not  needing  any 
words.  The  lovers  returned,  laughing,  from  the 
kitchen,  and  before  the  party  broke  up  Ruth  stood 
by  the  tiny  mantel,  fingering  a  mahogany  clock 
that  had  belonged  to  dear  papa,  and  sang  "Home, 


66  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Sweet  Home."  She  sang  it  softly  in  her  fresh,  clear, 
tender  voice,  and  Rob  watched  her  face,  enthralled, 
with  the  gaze  of  a  lover  upon  his  adored,  while  Alec 
looked  at  the  carpet  and  clasped  his  fingers  together 
and  Miss  Millie  cried  softly  without  restraint. 

Ruth's  voice  died  away,  and  there  was  a  long 
silence  in  the  room.  Then  Alec  Farnum  rose,  like 
a  big  Newfoundland  rousing  from  sleep,  looked  about 
him,  and  cried:  "Well,  well,  here  we've  all  had  a 
perfectly  delightful  time  weeping.  Let's  go  home 
before  Ruth  sings  something  cheerful  and  spoils  the 
evening!" 

His  hearty  voice  broke  the  spell.  Ruth  looked 
at  the  clock  her  hand  had  been  resting  upon  and 
pretended  to  be  scandalized.  Miss  Millie  protested 
that  it  was  probably  fast. 

"If  it  was  your  papa's,  it  is!"  said  Alec.  "His 
clocks  were  always  ahead  of  time,  just  to  make  me 
tardy." 

"You  were  always  stopping  to  hunt  for  birds' 
nests  on  the  way  to  school,  that  was  the  trouble  with 
you,"  said  Miss  Millie. 

She  came  to  the  door  with  them,  giving  each  her 
hand  with  great  ceremony.  To  Alec  she  spoke 
softly.  "How  can  I  ever  thank  you?"  she  said. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  declared.  "By  keeping  that 
animated  sausage  of  yours  out  of  my  garden.  He 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  07 

was  in  there  to-day,  right  across  my  pansy  bed! 
I  warn  you,  if  it  happens  again,  I'll — I'll — I'll  have 
Mrs.  Plumb  fry  him!" 

Miss  Millie's  eyes  sparkled.  "Friedy  never  walks 
in  flower  beds,"  she  said. 

"Well,  he'll  never  walk  in  mine  again,  that's 
sure ! "  said  Alec  Farnum  with  great  ferocity.  "  Good- 
night, madam." 

"Isn't  she  a  dear!"  Ruth  exclaimed  as  the  lovers 
left  the  older  man  in  front  of  the  Bird  House. 

"A  toy  lady  in  a  toy  house,  all  alone,"  said  Rob. 
"I  think  she's  a  bit  pathetic."  And  his  hand  sought 
Ruth's  in  the  darkness. 

"Yes,  all  alone!"  said  the  Bird  House  Man,  so 
soberly  that  they  watched  him,  surprised,  as  he 
entered  the  door  of  his  own  lonely  dwelling. 


CHAPTER  HE 

THE   LITTLE   GRAY    GOOSE 

"  GOOD  morning,  Mr.  Farnum,"  said  a  girl  in  gray, 
as  Alec  Farnum  came  around  the  corner  of  a  house 
on  the  outskirts  of  Southmead,  into  the  backyard. 

She  was  standing  in  the  kitchen  door,  with  a  white 
apron  over  her  gown,  and  smiled  at  him  prettily. 
She  was  an  extremely  pretty  girl,  in  fact,  with  large 
eyes  of  a  colour  usually  described  as  baby  blue,  and 
hair  so  light  it  was  almost  golden.  She  was  generally 
reported  to  be  something  of  a  coquette,  and  Alec 
didn't  much  wonder  at  it. 

"Are  you  hunting  birds'  nests?"  she  added. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "and  if  you  don't  mind,  I'm  going 
to  cut  through  your  yard  up  the  brook.  I  suspect 
a  swamp  sparrow  up  farther,  in  the  alders." 

"Not  at  all,  only  please  don't  take  all  the  eggs," 
said  she. 

"Nary  an  egg,"  he  answered,  and  went  on,  think- 
ing how  very  pretty  Marjory  Damon  was.  It  was  a 
fine  morning  in  early  June  and  Alec  Farnum  pushed 
up  the  brook  bed  and  into  the  alder  swamp,  as  much 
occupied  with  the  air  and  sunshine  as  with  his  search 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  69 

for  birds.  He  didn't  find  the  nest  he  was  seeking, 
and  after  a  time  he  put  his  glasses  back  into  the 
case,  patted  his  pocket  to  see  if  his  lunch  was  prop- 
erly stowed,  and  pushed  on  into  the  upland  woods. 
After  three  or  four  miles  of  leisurely  tramping,  broken 
by  several  pauses  to  watch  a  hermit  thrush  or  a 
partridge,  he  crested  the  ridge  and  came  down 
rapidly  to  a  back  road  so  little  used  that  two  parallel 
rows  of  grass  were  growing  between  the  wheel  ruts 
and  the  central  path  made  by  the  horse.  It  was  a 
pretty  road  winding  over  the  upland,  with  glimpses 
of  a  valley  here  and  there  between  the  timber  and  a 
wealth  of  wild  flowers  on  either  side.  Alec  Farnum 
strolled  along  it  till  he  should  come  to  a  brook, 
where  he  proposed  to  eat  his  lunch.  He  came  to 
the  brook  presently,  which  tinkled  down  from  the 
hill  in  a  series  of  mossy  waterfalls,  passed  under  the 
road,  and  made  off  into  the  valley  below.  The  man 
turned  aside  a  few  feet  into  the  shade  upstream,  got 
out  his  tin  cup  and  his  pocketful  of  sandwiches  and 
raisins,  and  lying  luxuriously  down  close  to  the 
stream  began  to  munch. 

He  had  finished  only  one  sandwich  when  he  heard 
steps  on  the  road,  and  in  a  moment  a  man  appeared, 
spied  the  brook,  cast  a  pack  from  his  shoulders,  and 
produced  a  folding  cup  from  his  pocket.  As  he 
stooped  to  dip  Alec  Farnum  spoke. 


70  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"It's  good  water,"  he  said,  "and  a  long,  dry  way 
up  the  slope  to  reach  it." 

The  man  looked  up,  startled,  seeing  Alec  for  the 
first  time. 

"Hello!"  said  he.  "Are  you  a  son  of  the  road, 
too?" 

"No,"  said  Alec,  "I  hate  roads,  except  forgotten 
ones  like  this." 

He  looked  at  the  newcomer  narrowly — a  young, 
spare  man,  with  a  smooth-shaven  face  so  newly 
tanned  that  the  skin  was  yet  peeling  on  his  forehead.  • 
He  wore  knickerbockers,  and  even  Alec  could  tell 
by  the  look  of  it  that  his  shirt  was  expensive.  His 
khaki  pack,  however,  which  now  lay  by  the  brook, 
was  old  and  well  worn. 

"I  hate  'em,  too,"  said  he,  "when  they're  full  of 
motors.  I  tramp  by  the  government  survey  maps, 
and  take  the  roads  where  the  contour  intervals  are 
thickest.  This  one  looked  good  to  me.  Where  does 
it  lead  to?" 

"You're  no  son  of  the  road,  you're  a  fraud," 
said  Alec. 

"Why?" 

"Because,  if  you  were  the  real  thing  you'd  not 
care  where  the  road  leads  to.  You'd  like  it  better 
if  you  didn't  know,  in  fact." 

The  young  man   laughed.     "You're  right,"   he 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  71 

said.  "I'm  not  yet  emancipated  from  shirts — clean 
shirts.  I've  been  on  the  road  a  week,  and  I  want 
to  get  to  my  laundry.  I  had  it  expressed  to  a  town 
called  Southmead.  Am  I  on  the  way  to  that  metrop- 
olis?" 

"As  I've  come  from  there  since  breakfast  and  I'm 
old  enough  to  be  your  father,  you  might  reach  it  by 
supper,"  Alec  replied.  "Have  you  some  lunch?" 

The  other,  for  answer,  unpacked  his  kit,  produced 
a  small  fry  pan  from  an  oilcloth  covering,  and  a  jar  of 
bacon  and  hah*  a  loaf  of  bread.  Then  he  proceeded 
to  make  a  small  fire.  Alec  watched  him  in  silence. 

"That's  a  lot  of  trouble  for  a  noon  meal  when 
you're  on  the  road,"  he  said. 

"Not  when  you  don't  know  what  you're  going  to 
get  at  night,"  the  other  laughed.  "Some  of  your 
Yankee  hotels  have  horrible  cold  suppers — a  small 
piece  of  cold  corned  beef,  mostly  gristle,  on  an  oblong 
platter,  soggy  bread,  and  a  piece  of  pale,  discouraged 
custard  pie !  Besides,  I  like  to  make  a  little  fire  and 
hear  the  bacon  sizzle,  and  then  put  it  out  when  I 
depart  and  cast  a  backward  glance  at  the  embers. 
There's  a  pleasant  little  sadness  in  leaving  a  camp- 
fire,  even  where  you've  stopped  but  an  hour.  Do 
you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  have  a  vague  idea,"  the  older  man  smiled. 
"You  live  in  a  city,  I  take  it?" 


72  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Why  do  you  take  it?" 

"Your  clothes  and  your  speech  and  your — pardon 
my  saying  so — somewhat  naive  method  of  making 
a  fire,"  Alec  answered. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  fire?"  the  other 
demanded  good-naturedly. 

"You've  been  feeding  it  with  dead  willow,  that's 
all.  Last  winter  we  had  a  city  chap  in  our  town  who 
wanted  some  'good,  hard  wood,'  so  Pat  Sweeny  sold 
him  three  cords  of  'good,  hard  wilier.' " 

Alec  got  up,  took  the  other's  sheath  hatchet,  and 
returned  presently  with,  a  few  split  faggots  of  cherry. 
"Now  you'll  get  some  coals  fit  to  cook  with,"  he 
laughed.  "Tell  me  about  yourself.  I  like  your 
face." 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  to  tell." 

"Everybody  has  something  to  tell,"  said  the  older 
man. 

"I  haven't.  School,  college,  business,  just  the 
usual  thing.  I'm  better  at  business  than  I  was  at 
school,  but  no  great  shakes  at  that.  I  can  stand  it 
only  so  long  at  a  stretch,  and  then  I  have  to  dash  off 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  tramp.  New  York  gets  on  my 
nerves.  A  real  business  man  would  stay  on  the  job." 

"I  suppose  he  would.     What  is  your  business?" 

"Selling  bonds.  I  have  a  partner.  He's  the  real 
thing.  Golf  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  satisfies 


THE  BIKD  HOUSE  MAN  73 

him.  I  had  the  capital  to  start  the  business;  he  has 
the  brains  to  run  it.  Good  combination,  eh?  " 

"Does  it  take  brains  to  sell  bonds?"  asked  Alec. 

The  young  man  was  not  annoyed.  He  grinned 
amiably  in  fact.  "Not  so  much  as  we  on  Wall 
Street  think,"  he  admitted. 

Alec  Farnum  smiled  also.  "Well,  there's  no  hotel 
in  Southmead,"  he  remarked,  "so  you'll  have  to  stay 
with  me.  Perhaps  I  should  tell  you  who  I  am." 

"It's  not  necessary,  I  can  see  you're  a  regular 
feller,"  the  other  answered. 

Alec  bowed.  "And  you  probably  would  know  no 
better  if  I  told  you,"  said  he.  But  he  did  tell. 
"That  explains  the  field  glasses,"  he  added. 

The  young  man  laughed  frankly.  "No,  I  never 
heard  of  you,"  he  admitted,  "but  I'm  going  to  order 
all  your  books  when  I  get  back  to  town." 

"Then  you  are  my  friend  forever!"  Alec  cried. 

"And  you  ought  to  like  me,  too,"  the  other  added, 
"because  my  name  is  Thomas  Bird." 

The  two  of  them  started  out  presently  through  the 
woods  toward  Southmead,  chatting  as  they  strolled. 
They  talked  about  birds,  not  bonds,  about  camping 
and  cooking,  about  the  pleasures  of  the  open.  And 
presently  they  came  down  through  the  alder  swamp 
and  emerged  into  Marjory  Damon's  backyard. 

It  chanced  that  Marjory  was  again  on  the  back 


74  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

steps.  She  still  had  a  big  apron  over  her  gray  dress, 
and  a  pan  of  fudge  in  her  hand. 

"Hello  again,  Marjory!"  cried  Alec  Farnum.  "I 
caught  a  live  bird,  you  see." 

The  girl  coloured,  and  so  did  the  young  man. 

"He's  a  Thomas  Bird,  Marjory,"  said  Alec. 
"And,  Thomas  Bird,  Marjory  is  a  little  gray  goose. 
I  know,  because  a  girl  who  isn't  half  so  pretty  as  she 
is  told  me  so." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alec!"  said  Marjory,  dropping  the  lashes 
over  her  large  blue  eyes. 

"That  might  be  almost  any  other  girl,"  said 
Thomas  Bird  gallantly,  looking  at  the  figure  on  the 
steps. 

"You  ought  to  give  him  some  fudge  for  that," 
said  Alec. 

Marjory  laughed  through  her  blushes,  ran  into 
the  house  for  a  knife,  and  proffered  each  of  them  a 
huge  chunk  on  the  end  of  the  blade.  They  ate  it 
slowly,  with  relish,  and  Alec  watched  the  eyes  of  the 
young  people  playing  the  age-old  game  he  always 
loved  to  see.  Then  he  took  his  new  friend  home  with 
him. 

"A  pretty  girl,  eh?"  he  asked  when  they  reached 
the  road. 

"Do  you  always  introduce  pretty  girls  by  their 
first  names  only?"  asked  Thomas  Bird. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  75 

"Yes,  if  at  all,"  laughed  Alec.  "Her  last  name  is 
Damon,  if  that  matters." 

"Why  do  they  call  her  a  little  gray  goose?" 

"They  don't,"  said  Alec.  "They  don't  use  the 
adjectives.  Those  are  an  addition  of  my  own.  I'll 
have  to  let  my  neighbour,  Miss  Millie — Miss  Millie 
Tilton — explain  that." 

When  they  reached  the  Bird  House,  Mrs.  Plumb, 
his  housekeeper,  in  high  indignation  sent  Alec  off 
to  purchase  more  provisions.  "  Do  you  think  you're 
runnin'  a  hotel?"  she  demanded.  Tom  went  along, 
too,  after  his  laundry  and  his  mail,  and  he  sat  down 
to  supper  in  a  clean  shirt,  with  the  contenting  in- 
formation that  business  was  dull  and  he  could  stay 
away  another  week  if  he  wished. 

"Stay  here  and  see  Southmead,"  said  Alec. 

"Perhaps  a  day,  if  it  isn't  imposing,"  he  answered. 
"I  love  your  house,  and  your  garden,  and  you.  It's 
not  much  like  Wall  Street! " 

"Not  much,"  said  Alec,  "that's  a  fact." 

After  supper  the  Bird  House  Man  disappeared  a 
moment  and  brought  Miss  Millie  Tilton  back  with 
him  into  the  garden,  where  the  young  man  was 
smoking  his  cigar. 

"  He  wants  to  know  why  you  call  Marjory  Damon 
a  goose,"  said  Alec. 

Miss  Millie  (who  was  closely  pursued  by  Sieg- 


76  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

fried)  coloured,  and  her  large  eyes  grew  pained. 
"Why,  Alec,  the  idea!"  she  answered.  "I'm  sure 
I  never  called  her  any  such  thing." 

"Still,  why  do  you  think  she  is  one?"  Alec  per- 
sisted. 

"Well,  who  wouldn't?"  said  Miss  Millie  suddenly. 
"A  girl  of  her  age  wearing  nothing  but  gray  all  the 
time — gray  suits,  gray  dresses,  gray  furs — just  be- 
cause somebody  told  her  once  that  was  her  colour! 
And  the  way  she  carries  on  with  the  boys!  A  flirt, 
that's  what  she  is!  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  we 
wouldn't  have  had  all  those  modern  dances  in  South- 
mead.  She  went  to  Springfield  for  a  week,  just  to 
learn  'em." 

"Why,  Millie,  how  you  talk!"  said  Alec.  "She 
can't  help  it  if  the  boys  run  after  her." 

"No  woman  is  run  after  who  doesn't  want  to  be," 
Miss  Millie  replied  with  great  decision. 

"Don't  they  all  want  to  be?  "  Thomas  Bird  inquired. 

Miss  Millie  froze  him  with  a  look,  and  followed  by 
Siegfried  returned  through  the  fence  to  her  own  little 
dwelling. 

"Now  you  know,"  said  Alec,  "perhaps.  My  per- 
sonal belief  is  that  Marjory  wears  gray  because  she 
looks  like  Edna  May." 

"Edna  May  was  before  my  time,"  said  Thomas 
Bird,  naively,  and  wondered  why  his  host  chuckled. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  77 

He  stayed  a  day  in  Southmead,  he  stayed  two 
days,  at  the  end  of  a  week  he  was  still  there.  The 
Bird  House  Man  was  very  busy  on  an  unexpected 
order  for  feed  boxes  and  another  for  a  magazine 
article,  which  came  at  the  same  time  and  forced  him 
to  leave  his  guest  pretty  much  to  his  own  devices. 
What  those  devices  were  became  known  to  Alec 
before  the  week  was  up,  and  he  wrote  several  letters 
to  New  York,  chewing  the  end  of  a  dead  cigar  in  his 
study  after  his  guest  had  gone  to  bed.  The  guest 
was  still  there  when  the  answers  came;  it  was  ten 
days  now.  Alec  read  them  one  by  one  and  seemed 
satisfied.  "Besides,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "I 
don't  believe  the  little  gray  goose  is  such  a 
goose,  anyway.  She  will  give  as  good  as  she 
takes." 

On  the  evening  of  the  eleventh  day  Thomas  Bird 
came  suddenly  into  the  study  not  long  after  nine. 
He  had  been  calling  on  Marjory.  His  face  wore 
a  curious,  grave  look,  and  his  lip  line  was  straight 
and  hard. 

"Well,  you  are  back  early,"  said  Alec  cheerily. 

"Yes,  I  must  go  in  the  morning,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  was  hard,  too. 

"Well,  I  am  sorry,"  cried  Alec.  "It's  been  pleas- 
ant to  have  you  here,  even  if  I  have  been  too  busy  to 
entertain  you,  so  you  had  to  fall  back  on — well,  let 


78  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

us  say  on  your  own  resources.  But  why  this  sudden 
decision  to  leave?  No  bad  news,  I  hope?" 

The  young  man  drew  in  his  breath  and  expelled 
a  cloud  of  smoke,  for  he  had  lighted  a  cigarette 
with  fingers  that  made  the  match  shake,  Alec  noted. 
He  looked  down  at  the  floor,  then  he  looked  quickly 
at  the  kind,  quizzical  face  of  his  host. 

"Miss  Tilton  was  right,"  he  said  briefly.  "Now  I 
must  go  pack." 

"Oh,  come,"  cried  Alec,  "let's  talk  that  over  a 
bit!  I've  known  Millie  to  be  wrong  before  now." 

But  Tom  Bird  only  shook  his  head.  "I'm  sorry, 
but,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'd — I'd  rather  not  talk  about 
it.  Good-night,  sir." 

The  odd,  boyish  address  at  the  end  struck  Alec 
silent,  and  he  let  his  guest  depart  upstairs. 

"The  poor  beggar's  really  hard  hit!"  he  exclaimed 
to  himself.  "I  wonder  if  Millie  is  right." 

He  did  not  try  to  resume  the  discussion  in  the 
morning,  but  bade  his  new  friend  a  hearty  good-bye 
and  shipped  him  off  to  the  station.  Then  he  sawed 
and  nailed  and  painted  energetically  all  day,  but  he 
did  not  whistle  as  he  worked. 

That  evening  as  he  sat  in  his  study  the  doorbell 
rang,  and  Mrs.  Plumb  showed  Marjory  in.  She 
wore  a  gray  muslin  that  was  almost  white  and  her 
eyes  looked  unusually  large. 


"  'Yes,'  she  went  on  ...  'You  must  go  with  me,  be- 
cause if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  he  would  never  have  met  me. 
You  were  to  blame  in  the  first  place.' ' 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  79 

"He's  gone,  hasn't  he?"  she  said  briefly  and  at 
once. 

"Sit  down,"  Alec  commanded,  pushing  a  chair 
where  the  light  would  fall  on  her  face.  "Yes,  he's 
gone." 

"I  am  going  after  him,  and  you  are  going  with 
me,"  she  continued  with  curious  decision. 

The  Bird  House  Man  removed  his  pipe  from  his 
lips  and  whistled.  "Is  that  so?"  said  he.  "I  wish 
you  wouldn't  be  so  sudden  with  your  news." 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  without  the  trace  of  a  smile  on 
her  face,  "you  must  go  with  me,  because  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  he  would  never  have  met  me.  You 
were  to  blame  in  the  first  place." 

"To  blame  for  what?"  asked  the  man,  watching 
her  narrowly. 

She  did  not  blush  nor  try  to  avoid  his  eyes.  "  To 
blame  for  my  loving  him,"  she  said. 

"And  did  he  go  away  because  you  love  him?" 

"He  went  away,  I  think,  because  he  believes  that 
I  don't  love  him,"  she  answered.  "I  am  going  to 
tell  him  that  he  is  wrong.  If  you  will  not  go  with 
me,  I  shall  go  alone." 

"Have  you  been  reading  'Man  and  Superman?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean;  I  never  heard  of 
it,"  she  said. 

"Well,  let  that  pass,"  Alec  smiled.     "But  before 


80  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

I  take  a  trip  to  New  York  with  the  most  attractive 
young  girl  in  town  I  want  to  know  a  little  more 
about  the  causes  for  such  a  momentous  proceed- 
ing." 

A  frown  gathered  between  the  girl's  eyes.  She 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  master  her  ideas.  Fi- 
nally she  spoke.  "Mr.  Alec,"  she  said,  "you  know  my 
mother  and  my  father  both,  of  course.  I  can  tell 
you  something  you  will  understand,  though  I  couldn't 
tell  it  to  anybody  else.  They  wouldn't  understand. 
They'd  think  I  was  wicked  to  mention  it.  It's  this : 
my  mother  didn't  love  my  father  much  when  she 
married  him;  I  know  that,  though  mother  never 
told  me.  He  was  never  good  enough  for  mother— 
I  don't  mean  he  was  ever  bad,  you  know  that,  but 
he  was  just  contented  to  live  here  and  go  to  the 
lodge  meetings  every  Wednesday  and  be  a  carpenter 
and  just — just — well,  just  that  kind  of  a  man.  But 
mother  was  different.  I  know  she  was,  because  I 
know  how  I  feel,  how  I  am.  Mother  dreamed,  I 
know,  of  getting  away,  of  loving  some  man  who 
would  make  life  full  of — of  interest  and  emotion  for 
her.  Mother  could  have  loved  such  a  man,  too! 
In  her  day  there  was  no  chance  of  a  girl's  getting 
away  except  by  marriage.  You  may  think  it's 
easier  now,  but  it  isn't  for  most  girls.  Unless  you've 
been  to  college  or  you  run  away  with  a  theatre  troupe, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  81 

there  is  precious  little  chance  of  escaping.  Oh,  the 
boys  have  so  much  the  better  of  it!" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  Alec,  in  silence, 
watched  her  flushed  face. 

"Well,  mother  had  her  chance.  I  know  she  did. 
She  never  told  me — not  really — but  I  just  know  she 
did.  At  least,  she  loved  a  man,  the  kind  of  a  man 
who  could  have  understood  her  dreams,  and  taken 
her  with  him  into  a  richer  life.  But  something 
happened — I  don't  know  what — mother  never  told 
me,  never  spoke  of  it — I've  just  pieced  this  all 
together  from  unconscious  hints — and  mother  lost 
him.  But,  Mr.  Alec,  I  know  that  mother  loves  him 
yet,  whoever  and  wherever  he  is." 

Again  she  paused,  and  her  big  eyes  were  staring 
straight  ahead  with  a  look  almost  of  horror  in  them. 

The  man  put  out  his  hand  and  patted  hers,  and 
she  turned  her  face  and  gave  him  a  tiny,  grateful 
smile. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "mother  loves  him  yet, 
way  down  deep  in  the  back  of  her  heart,  and  once  I 
saw  her  when  she  was  sewing,  and  she  had  dropped 
her  work  and  was  looking  hard  into  a  tiny  locket  I 
discovered  when  I  was  a  girl  that  she  kept  hidden  at 
the  bottom  of  her  Martha  Washington  table,  and 
there's  a  picture  in  it,  not  of  father.  She  didn't 
see  me  looking  at  her — I  was  in  the  next  room.  She 


82  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

was  crying — just  softly,  to  herself.  But  suddenly 
father  called  from  downstairs,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  look  that  came  over  mother's  face!  Oh, 
Mr.  Alec,  I  can't  tell  you!" 

The  girl  was  once  more  silent,  and  the  Bird  House 
Man  was  silent,  too.  His  pipe  had  gone  out.  But 
he  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"They  say  no  woman  ever  quite  forgets  her  first 
love,"  said  he,  "and  cynics  add  that  no  woman  ever 
marries  him.  You,  I  take  it,  do  not  want  to  lose 
your  chance — if  there  is  a  chance — for  a  happiness 
with  Tom  Bird  richer  and  fuller  than  anything  South- 
mead  promises  for  you.  Is  that  it?  " 

She  nodded  her  head.  "I  don't  want  mother's 
secret  in  my  life,"  she  whispered. 

"But  there  are  some  things  yet  to  be  explained 
to  me,"  he  went  on  gravely.  "How,  in  the  space  of 
ten  days,  can  you  be  so  sure  that  you  really  love 
him?  The  little  birds  have  whispered  to  me  that 
you  and  Bobbie  Noble  were  going  to  hit  it  off  some 
day.  The  world  suspects  affections  too  easily  trans- 
ferred. And  why  should  he  have  left  so  suddenly?" 

He  spoke  kindly  to  her,  but  he  spoke  with  a  stern 
kindness. 

"I  never  loved  Bobbie  Noble,"  she  answered. 
"The  little  birds  in  this  town  do  a  lot  of  talking. 
You  ought  to  know  that.  I've  flirted  with  Bobbie, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  83 

I'm  free  to  admit.  I've  flirted  with  a  lot  of  boys. 
People  call  me  a  flirt,  and  I've  been  one.  I  like  men 
better  than  girls,  I  like  to  have  them  admire  me. 
I've  let  them  make  love  to  me — what  they  call  love- 
making.  I've  let  Bobbie  do  it  more  than  the  others 
because  he  was  the  most  decent  and — and  presumed 
least — or  I  thought  he  did.  But  I've  always  known 
just  where  I  stood,  Mr.  Alec.  I've  always  known 
what  love,  real  love,  would  be  like  when  it  came, 
and  not  ten  days  but  ten  hours  would  be  enough  to 
show  me.  Mr.  Bird  came  to  flirt  with  me — I  knew 
that.  I  guess  perhaps  you  told  him  I  was  a  flirt.'" 

"On  my  honour,  no,"  said  Alec. 

"Well,  somebody  did,  anyway.  But  I  didn't 
flirt  with  him.  I  couldn't.  He  was  real  to  me,  he 
was  what  I'd  dreamed  of.  He  made  me  shy  and 
silent.  We  went  walking  down  by  the  river,  and  he 
talked  of  New  York,  and  books,  and  his  tramps, 
and  he  didn't  flirt  with  me,  either.  And  then  he 
came  again,  and  again,  and — and — we  fell  in  love. 
I'm  sure  he  fell  in  love,  too!  He  never  said  so,  but 
he  talked  of  love,  and  he  told  me  about  his  hopes, 
and  how  he  loved  dogs  on  a  hearth  by  a  fire,  and  he 
made  me  feel  I  was  to  be  in  the  room  he  was  dream- 
ing about,  and  my  heart  got  so  big  I  thought  he 
could  hear  it  beating  against  my  side,  and  his  voice 
was  thrilling!" 


84  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

She  abruptly  stopped  again,  and  a  sudden  gush 
of  tears  came  from  her  eyes.  The  Bird  House  Man 
passed  her  his  great  silk  handkerchief  when  he  saw 
her  vainly  fumbling  for  hers. 

"But  why  did  Tom  leave?"  said  he  gently,  when 
she  had  ceased  weeping. 

Marjory  resumed  her  story.  "He  came  last  night 
about  eight,  I  guess,  or  later.  I  knew  he  was  com- 
ing. But  when  he-  arrived,  Bobbie  was  there.  I 
had  gone  out  to  the  hammock  to  wait — we'd  agreed 
on  it — and  father  saw  me  there,  and  that's  how 
Bobbie  knew  where  I  was.  He  was  making  a  scene 
— I  never  knew  him  to  act  so.  I  was  trying  to  get 
rid  of  him;  but  he  said  we'd  been  keeping  Wednesday 
nights  for  each  other  for  a  long  time,  and  he  refused 
to  go.  He  said  he'd  stay  around  and  spoil  every- 
body's evening.  He  meant  it,  too.  He's  awful 
mulish  sometimes.  Well,  finally  he  got  the  idea  in 
his  head  that  he  wanted  to  kiss  me,  and  he  said  he'd 
go  if  I'd  let  him.  Of  course,  I  wouldn't  let  him — 
not  at  first.  But  then  I  thought  how  short  a  time 
Mr.  Bird  would  be  here,  and  how  much  it  meant  to 
me — perhaps  to  both  of  us — that  we  should  be  to- 
gether; and  Bobbie  had  insisted  on  sitting  in  the 
hammock,  and  he  was  fighting  so — you  know,  the 
way  boys  do,  country  boys,  anyhow — that  finally  in 
desperation  I  let  him  kiss  me.  And — and — of  course 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  85 

that  was  the  moment  when  Mr.  Bird  was  coming 
through  the  shadow  over  the  lawn ! " 

"Just  like  a  play,"  said  Alec. 

"Just  like  a  play,"  she  agreed.  "Well,  I  knew  the 
second  I  laid  eyes  on  his  face  that  he'd  seen.  I 
introduced  Bobbie,  and  then  I  pushed  him  out. 
If  I'd  been  a  man,  I'd  have  kicked  him  out!  I  tried 
to  explain  to  Mr.  Bird,  but  how  can  you  explain  a 
thing  like  that,  all  suddenly?  I — I  guess  I  made  a 
mess  of  it!" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  something  about  taking  another  man's 
girl,  and  shook  hands  good-bye  and  went  out  of 
the  yard — and  I  just  stood  there  and  let  him  go — 
and  that's  why  you  are  going  to  New  York  with 
me." 

"What  time  did  this  happen?"  asked  Alec. 

"About  eight-fifteen,  I  guess.     Why?" 

"H'm.     He  didn't  come  home  till  nine-thirty." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  cried  Marjory,  her  face  grow- 
ing happy  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes,  it  does  look  hopeful,"  Alec  smiled.  "But 
why  the  New  York  trip?  Why  not  write?  " 

"Write!"  she  said  scornfully.  "Would  you  write 
when  you  had  so  much  at  stake?  Would  you  trust 
all  your  happiness  to  a  piece  of  paper?" 

"Not  if  my  looks  were  so  much  more  eloquent 


86  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

than  language,  that's  a  fact,"  the  man  grinned, 
patting  her  hand  once  more.  "But  what  will  you 
say  to  him?" 

"Just  what  I've  said  to  you — or  almost.  I'm  not 
afraid  to!  I'll  say,  'Don't  give  me  any  answer  now. 
But  if  you  can  some  time  answer  me,  come  back  to 
visit  Mr.  Alec,  and  I'll  be  waiting — without  any 
Bobbie!'  Oh,  Mr.  Alec,  there'll  never  be  any  more 
Bobbies!" 

"Well,  well,  Bobbies  aren't  such  a  crime,  except 
when  you're  very  young  and  very  much  in  love," 
he  smiled.  "Will  your  parents  consent  to  your 
going  to  New  York?" 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  she  said  simply. 
"I  earn  my  own  living.  I  make  candy  for  three 
different  women's  exchanges.  Perhaps  you  didn't 
know  that?  And  I  do  enough  housework  to  pay 
my  board." 

"H'm,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man,  "I  always  sus- 
pected they  were  wrong!" 

"  Who  were  wrong?  " 

"The  people  who  called  you  a  goose,"  he  smiled. 
"When  do  we  start?" 

"To-morrow  morning!"  cried  Marjory.  "Oh, 
I'd  like  to  kiss  you ! " 

"Don't,"  said  Alec;  "Tom  might  find  out." 

The  next  morning  they  met  at  the  train  with  a 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  87 

studied  air  of  accident,  which  amused  them,  and 
shortly  after  lunch  they  were  in  New  York. 

"Now,  we  will  ride  in  a  taxi,  and  I  shall  pay  for 
it ! "  she  cried.  "  What  hotel  are  we  going  to?  " 

"I  think  you  will  go  to  the  Martha  Washington," 
said  Alec  grimly. 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Oh,  yes!  Do  you  think  I  want  to  be  branded  in 
Southmead  as  an  abductor?  You  go  there  and  wait! 
At  five  o'clock  I'll  try  to  have  Tom  on  hand.  It'll 
depend  on  you  whether  we  all  dine  together.  I'll 
return,  say,  at  six-thirty.  Has  it  occurred  to  you 
that  Tom  mayn't  be  in  New  York?" 

Marjory  went  white.  "Oh,  but  he  is,  he  is!99 
she  cried. 

"Yes,  he  is.  I  telegraphed  last  evening  after 
you  went  home,"  Alec  smiled. 

Then  he  went  downtown.  Alec  Farnum  down- 
town in  New  York  was  something  of  an  anomaly. 
He  was  wearing  an  uncomfortable  stiff  collar,  to  be 
sure,  but  he  carried  his  unaccustomed  hat  in  his 
hand,  showing  his  bronzed  forehead,  and  he  stared 
up  at  the  high  buildings  with  his  keen,  blue  eyes, 
the  eyes  of  a  woodsman,  like  a  boy.  They  never 
ceased  to  fascinate  him,  those  mortared  mountains. 
In  the  office  of  Ellman  and  Bird  the  door-boy  rec- 
ognized him  instantly  for  a  "rube,"  and  took  his 


88  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

own  time  with  the  card.  But  when  the  card  did 
reach  Tom  Bird,  it  brought  that  young  man  bound- 
ing out  of  his  private  office  to  drag  the  older  man 
back  with  him  by  both  hands.  They  talked  a  long 
time,  and  once  when  the  switchboard  operator  put 
somebody  on  Mr.  Bird's  wire  he  ordered  her  brusquely 
to  say  he  was  out.  But  when  the  man  with  the 
big  shoulders  and  the  grizzled  beard  and  bronzed 
forehead  did  emerge  again,  he  was  grinning,  and 
Thomas  Bird  looked  like  a  very  happy  schoolboy. 

At  six-thirty  Alec  called  at  the  Martha  Washing- 
ton. A  couple  rose  from  a  window-seat  in  the  par- 
lour. The  girl  was  in  gray,  but  she  had  a  bunch  of 
exquisite  pink  roses  on  her  breast  that  were  no  pinker 
than  her  cheeks. 

"Mr.  Bird  is  going  to  take  us  to  dinner  and  to  a 
roof  garden,"  she  said,  giving  Alec's  hand  a  secret 
squeeze. 

They  had  a  merry  and  magnificent  dinner,  and 
at  the  roof  garden  the  Bird  House  Man  found  pleas- 
ure enough  in  the  little  drama  of  whisperings  and 
shoulder  leanings  and  accidental  hand  touchings 
(which  he  watched  out  of  a  corner  of  his  eye)  to 
make  him  forget  the  inanities  on  the  stage.  After 
the  show  was  over  they  walked  through  the  warm 
night,  across  Bryant  Park  and  down  the  deserted 
Avenue  to  the  Martha  Washington,  with  Marjory 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  89 

between  the  two  men,  an  arm  given  to  each,  silent, 
happy,  listening  to  their  talk.  At  her  door  she 
turned  and  smiled  up  at  both  of  them.  "I've  had 
such  a  good  time ! "  she  said. 

"It  was  a  good  dinner,  but  a  pretty  punk  show," 
Alec  replied,  with  a  plaintive  note  in  his  voice. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  all  the  good  theatres  are  closed," 
Tom  apologized  seriously.  "And  I'm  going  to 
rub  it  in  by  coming  to  visit  you  again  soon,  if  I 
may." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  may,"  said  the  Bird  House 
Man.  "Everybody  seems  to  regard  my  house  as  a 
summer  hotel,  when  it  gets  too  hot  in  town." 

Tom  looked  surprised.     "Well,  if "  he  began. 

But  Marjory  laughed.  "Oh,  Mr.  Bird— Tom," 
she  cried,  "you  won't  mind  if  I  kiss  him,  will  you?" 

And  before  anybody  could  reply  she  rose  on  tiptoe 
and  kissed  Alec  Farnum.  Then  she  suddenly  wept 
through  her  laughter,  and  ran  hastily  into  the 
hotel. 

"There's  nothing  left  for  you  and  me  to  do,  my 
boy,  but  to  go  and  get  a  drink,"  said  Alec. 

Quite  by  accident  again,  the  next  afternoon  the 
Bird  House  Man  and  Marjory  Damon  alighted  from 
the  same  train  at  Southmead. 

"I've  got  way  behind  on  my  bird  houses/'  he 
complained. 


90  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"And  I've  got  twenty  pounds  of  nut  bar  to  make," 
said  she. 

He  watched  her  tripping  energetically  up  the 
street,  her  bag  ;n  one  hand,  her  roses,  carefully  tied 
up,  in  the  other,  her  head  poised,  erect,  happy. 

"A  little  gray  goose,"  he  mused.  "How  little 
any  of  us  know  about  the  rest  of  us!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   HERMIT 

"THE  longer  I  live  in  Southmead,"  said  Dr. 
Thomas  Trask,  "the  more  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to 
step  into  the  last  chapter  of  a  novel  every  time  I 
enter  a  house.'* 

Alec  Farnum  stroked  his  grizzled  goatee  with 
his  big,  powerful  hand.  "You  talk  as  if  we  were  a 
public  library,"  said  he. 

"Public?  My  Lord,  no!"  the  doctor  answered, 
as  he  twined  one  long  leg  around  the  other,  after 
his  fashion  when  he  was  talking  earnestly.  "If 
anything  could  be  more  private  than  some  of  these 
novels,  I  don't  want  to  meet  up  with  it.  You  New 
Englanders  are  funny  folks — you're  as  reticent 
about  yourselves  as  you  are  outspoken  about  your 
neighbours." 

The  Bird  House  Man  laughed.  "Not  bad, 
Tommy,"  said  he.  "Almost  an  epigram.  Fill 
up  your  pipe  and  tell  me  what  last  chapter  you've 
stumbled  into  now.  Perhaps  I  can  tell  you  what 
went  before." 

The  doctor,   a  tall,   thin,   youngish   man,   filled 

91 


92  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

his  pipe  from  Alec  Farnum's  jar,  and  twined  his 
legs  together  again. 

"The  sad  part  of  it  is,"  said  he,  "that  it  should 
seem  like  a  last  chapter.  It  ought  to  be  a  first  or 
second  chapter.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  the  life 
story  of  a  woman  in  one  of  your  New  England  vil- 
lages had  only  two  chapters:  first,  childhood;  second, 
marriage  or,  more  often,  spinsterhood — prolonged 
indefinitely." 

"Stop  calling  it  my  New  England,"  cried  Alec. 
"7  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Go  on  with  your 
story." 

"Well,  hi  this  case,  there's  one  of  those  last 
chapters  consisting  of  six  hundred  pages  of  ditto 
marks  yet  to  be  put  down,"  said  the  doctor.  "Only 
I  feel  sure  some  strange  chapters  went  before.  You 
know  the  Weir  house  up  on  the  flats?" 

"Oh,"  said  Alec.  "The  misty  mid-regions  of 
Wen*,  eh?  And  have  you  been  giving  pills  to  Mar- 
garet Weir?" 

"Not  pills.  She  doesn't  need  pills.  What  she 
needs,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  is  to  forget  the  first 
chapters,  and  especially  to  forget  the  endless  pros- 
pect of  ditto  marks  stretching  out  ahead  of  her. 
She  lives  there  alone,  with  one  old  servant,  in  that 
strange  house — it  would  give  anybody  neurasthenia. 
It's  the  misty  mid-region  of  Weir,  all  right!  The 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  93 

other  night  I  could  see  the  mist  creeping  up  from  the 
river.  Brrr,  it  makes  me  shiver!" 

"Has  Margaret  got  neurasthenia?"  asked  Alec. 
"I  didn't  know  her  father  left  her  money  enough  for 
that." 

The  doctor  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  "I  don't 
know  if  I'd  call  it  by  that  name,"  he  said.  "It 
was  stomach  trouble  when  I  first  called — but  purely 
a  nervous  disorganization.  I've  been  afraid  of 
something  worse." 

"So  you've  been  going  often?"  asked  Alec. 

"Oh,  every  now  and  then,"  said  the  young  doctor 
carelessly. 

Alec  smiled  and  stroked  his  beard. 

"Margaret  is  a  nice  girl,"  he  remarked.  "She 
plays  the  violin  very  well." 

"Doesn't  she!"  cried  Tommy  Trask  with  enthu- 
siasm. "I've  encouraged  her  to  keep  that  up." 

Again  Alec  smiled.  "So  you've  heard  her?  I 
believe  the  man  she  was  engaged  to  was  also  a 
musician.  We  never  saw  him  here.  She  met  him 
in  Paris  the  winter  she  studied  there." 

A  frown  had  gathered  on  the  young  doctor's  brow. 
"How  long  ago  was  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  seven  or  eight  years,  I  guess.  Margaret 
must  be  thirty  now.  Her  father  died  some  years 
ago,  and  it  was  before  he  died  that  she  came  home 


94  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

from  Paris  with  a  solitaire  on  her  finger  and  black 
on  the  rest  of  her." 

"Eight  years!'*  the  doctor  exclaimed.  "Eight 
years  wearing  black,  black,  black,  nothing  but  black, 
in  a  lonely  house  full  of  black  walnut,  with  a  black 
row  of  Norway  spruces  all  around  it,  and  a  garden 
full  of  weeds,  and  the  mists  of  the  river  creeping  up ! 
Why  wouldn't  she  have  neurasthenia!  I  told  her 
so,  frankly." 

"What  did  she  say?"  demanded  Alec  with  aroused 
curiosity. 

"She  didn't  say  anything.  She  looked  at  me  as  if 
I'd  struck  her — forgot  I  was  a  doctor,  I  guess — left 
me  suddenly  alone  in  that  damnable  library  of  her 
father's,  which  looks  like  a  cross  between  a  second- 
hand bookstore  and  the  morgue.  I  wish  you'd  see 
what  you  can  do.  People  in  this  town  seem  to  stand 
for  anything  from  you!" 

"No,  sir!"  roared  Alec.  "I'll  make  a  sled  car- 
riage for  Carrie  Potter's  twins;  I'll  build  a  house  for 
Millie  Tilton;  I'll  catch  a  beau  for  Ruth— but  I'm 
damned  if  I'll  treat  Doctor  Trask's  neurasthenic 
females  for  him !  There  are  limits ! " 

The  doctor  smiled  even  as  he  frowned.  "Well, 
tell  me  what  her  father  was  like,  anyhow,"  he  said. 

"Like?  Heavens!  What  was  he  like?  I  can't 
describe  him.  He  was  more  Balzacian  than  New 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  95 

Englandish.  He  always  wore  an  old  frock  coat 
rubbed  shiny  bottle  green  on  the  tails,  and  talked 
about  his  poverty  when  he  wasn't  spouting  Virgil. 
I've  met  him  out  for  a  walk  spouting  Virgil  many  a 
time,  with  his  pockets  bulging  with  apples  he'd 
picked  up  under  a  tree  close  to  the  road  by  raking 
them  to  the  wall  with  his  cane  when  the  owner 
wasn't  looking.  He  had  been  a  schoolmaster  some- 
where in  his  earlier  days,  and  had  written  a  Latin 
text-book  which  was  largely  used.  He  was  a  very 
learned  man — used  to  write  essays  on  classical  sub- 
jects for  the  big  bow-wow  reviews,  and  reviewed 
books  by  the  score  for  several  papers.  But  a  miser, 
oh,  my!  In  his  day  that  garden  around  the  house 
was  worked.  Margaret  and  her  poor  mother  lived 
off  vegetables.  The  butcher  didn't  trouble  to  turn 
in  at  their  gate.  The  only  thing  he  spent  any  money 
for  was  Margaret's  music.  He  had  a  teacher  come 
here  to  town  once  a  week,  and  he  made  the  child 
practise  hours  on  a  stretch.  He  said  if  she  was  going 
to  play  she'd  got  to  play  well.  I  suppose  you'd 
call  that  the  artistic  conscience  in  him.  I  doubt 
if  he  had  any  other  kind.  When  she  was  twenty- 
two  or  thereabouts  he  let  her  go  to  Paris  for  a  winter. 
She  had  a  relative  over  there  to  live  with,  so  it  didn't 
cost  him  much,  but  he  got  tired  of  paying  a  house- 
keeper (Mrs.  Weir  was  dead,  killed  by  work,  the 


96  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

town  said),  so  he  made  Margaret  come  back.  There 
were  those  who  declared  he'd  torn  his  coat  and  was 
too  stingy  to  take  it  to  a  tailor,  so  he  made  the  girl 
come  home  from  Paris  to  darn  it!  A  couple  of 
years  or  so  later  he  died,  and  left  behind  him — how 
it  must  have  hurt  him! — the  house  and  consider- 
able money.  Nobody  but  Margaret  knows  how 
much,  but  I  notice  the  butcher  goes  in  there  every 
day.  There  you  have  the  story.'* 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  have  or  not,"  said 
Tommy  Trask,  still  frowning.  "It  doesn't  explain 
a  lot  of  things." 

"Well,  it's  all  I  can  give  you,"  said  the  Bird 
House  Man  kindly.  "You'll  have  to  get  the  rest 
from  the  patient." 

"It's  like  getting  the  answer  to  her  riddle  from  the 
Sphinx,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  tone  that  made  Alec 
pause  in  the  operation  of  cleaning  his  pipe,  and  look 
at  his  young  friend  sharply. 

"Why  are  you  so  interested  in  Margaret's  story?" 
he  demanded.  "You're  not  in  love  with  her  by 
any  chance,  are  you — you  long,  lean,  lank  crane, 
you!" 

"I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me,"  said  Thomas 
Trask. 

Alec  Farnum  nearly  dropped  his  pipe.  He  looked 
at  the  other  man  a  full  moment  in  astonished  si- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  97 

lence,  and  then  he  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
"The  crane  went  wooing  a  hermit  thrush!"  he  cried. 
"And  she  won't  have  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  isn't  quite  so  amusing  to  me,"  said 
the  doctor. 

Alec  sobered  down.  "Don't  lose  your  sense  of 
humour,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "at  least,  not  for  a  wo- 
man. It's  a  bad  sign  when  people  take  my  laughter 
seriously.  Well,  well,  don't  tell  me  any  more  now. 
I  couldn't  digest  it.  You've  given  me  enough  to 
think  over.  Go  home  and  sleep.  We'll  get  that 
story  read  backward  yet — yes,  and  alter  the  ending, 
too!" 

He  smote  the  doctor  mightily  on  the  back,  and 
sent  him  off  down  the  deserted  street  of  Southmead — 
it  always  was  deserted  when  Tommy  Trask  left  the 
Bird  House — with  no  light  in  any  window  save  that 
of  the  library  behind  him. 

The  Bird  House  Man  went  back  into  that  library, 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  blew  through  the 
stem  into  the  fireplace,  put  back  the  pipe  on  the 
mantel,  and  said  slowly,  aloud,  "Well,  I'll  be 
damned!" 

People  in  Southmead  were  never  surprised  when 
Alec  Farnum  appeared  in  their  backyards  with  his 
field  glasses  slung  over  his  shoulder.  He  had  the 


98  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

run  of  the  town  as  much  as  the  birds  themselves, 
and  was  always  as  welcome.  Probably,  too,  he 
preferred  that  way  to  call.  Hating  any  sort  of 
formality,  he  caught  people  off  their  guard.  The 
afternoon  following  his  talk  with  Tommy  Trask  he 
might  have  been  seen,  or  so  much  of  him  as  appeared 
above  the  long,  rank  meadow  grasses  and  weeds, 
striding  along  by  the  river  where  it  curved  and 
twisted  through  a  swampy  region  known  as  the 
Flats.  A  mile  from  the  village  he  turned  away 
from  the  bank  and  crossed  a  piece  of  pasture  full 
of  invading  hardhack  and  thorn  trees,  and  alive 
with  bobolinks,  and  stepped  through  a  broken 
fence  into  what  had  once  been  a  garden.  It  was 
choked  now  with  weeds  and  rank  grass.  A  grape- 
vine grew  in  picturesque  abandon  over  a  half -fallen 
trellis.  Several  hills  of  rhubarb  thrust  their  great 
leaves  up  above  the  weeds.  The  currant  bushes 
had  not  been  trimmed  in  a  long  while.  Alec  shook 
his  head  sadly.  A  neglected  garden  always  hurt 
him.  Beyond  the  garden  stood  a  house,  a  strange 
dwelling  with  one  corner  rising  into  a  tower  as  bare 
and  plain  as  a  wooden  block-house  of  Colonial 
times.  The  house  was  painted  a  mournful  brown, 
and  behind  it,  screening  it  from  the  highway,  rose 
a  great  double  row  of  spired  Norway  spruces,  in- 
credibly melancholy.  The  only  spot  of  warm  colour 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  99 

in  the  whole  scene  was  furnished  by  yellow  butter- 
cups growing  in  the  neglected  garden,  and  by  a  few 
plants  of  various  sorts  close  to  the  door  of  the 
dwelling  in  the  single  bed  which  was  kept  cultivated. 

Again  Alec  shook  his  head.  "Bleak  House!" 
he  exclaimed  to  himself.  "What  a  life  for  a  girl  of 
thirty!" 

As  he  started  to  walk  toward  the  French  door 
which  let  out  from  the  hall  on  this  side,  he  heard 
sounds  coming  from  within,  and  paused  to  listen. 
Margaret  Weir  was  playing  her  violin.  She  was 
playing  something  he  did  not  recognize,  with  a 
curious,  wailing  note  in  it.  The  sounds  came  forth 
from  the  sad  brown  dwelling,  over  the  garden  of 
weeds,  laden  with  a  luscious  beauty — and  laden, 
too,  with  sadness.  The  Bird  House  Man  walked 
slowly  up  the  remnants  of  a  path,  and  pounded  on 
the  door.  The  playing  stopped  abruptly. 

He  heard  steps  in  the  hall.  The  door  was  opened, 
slowly  and  cautiously,  and  he  saw  before  him  a  tall 
woman  dressed  entirely  in  black,  though  the  day 
was  warm,  with  a  face  oddly  like  a  flower  on  a  slender 
stalk,  but  a  flower  battered  and  cast  down  by  the 
rain.  She  should  have  been  a  beautiful  woman, 
Alec  reflected.  Then,  as  he  continued  to  look  at 
her,  he  saw  that  she  still  was  a  beautiful  woman. 
All  she  needed  was  a  light-green  dress  to  set  off  her 


100  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

gold  hair  and  gray  eyes,  and  a  smile  to  illuminate 
her  flower-like  face. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Alec!"  she  was  saying.  "You 
gave  me  such  a  start." 

"If  you  weren't  such  a  hermit,  I  wouldn't  have," 
he  retorted.  "Here  you  are,  singing  away  to  the 
weeds  hi  your  garden,  when  you  ought  to  be  per- 
forming at  my  entertainment  to  raise  funds  for  the 
Audubon  Society.  I've  come  to  ask  you  why  you 
don't  play  at  that  worthy  charity,  and  why  you  don't 
trim  those  currant  bushes." 

"I — I  always  refuse  to  play  in  public,  and  I — I — I 
hate  the  garden!"  she  answered. 

"Well,  Margaret,  you  shouldn't  do  either,"  said 
the  Bird  House  Man,  stepping  into  the  dim  hall. 
"And  you  should  get  a  thirsty  old  man  a  cup  of  tea. 
Will  you?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said.  "You  sit  in  the  library 
and  I'll  get  it  right  away." 

Alec  went  into  the  library.  It  was  a  large  room, 
lined  to  the  ceiling  with  open  pine  bookstacks 
painted  brown  like  the  house,  and  filled  with  musty 
books,  shelf  after  shelf  of  calf-bound  classics  being 
most  prominent.  Instead  of  a  fireplace  there  was 
an  old  black  Franklin  grate  thrusting  out  into  the 
room.  On  the  floor  were  old-fashioned  rag  rugs, 
their  colours  faded.  There  was  a  haircloth  sofa,  a 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  101 

worn  leather  armchair,  and  a  huge  black-walnut 
library  desk,  on  which  stood  a  student's  lamp. 
By  the  windows  was  a  smaller  table  bearing  a  vase 
of  fresh  wild  flowers — the  one  bright  spot  in  the 
room.  On  a  small  chair  beside  it  lay  Margaret's 
violin,  in  its  case.  Her  music  was  piled  two  feet 
high  on  the  big  desk. 

The  man  walked  over  and  picked  up  the  instru- 
ment, plucking  the  strings.  As  the  girl  came  back 
into  the  room  bearing  a  tray  with  tea  things  on  it, 
he  turned  toward  her.  "What  a  sleeping  beauty  of 
music  there  is  in  this  little  box  of  maple,"  he  said, 
"only  waiting  the  kiss  of  the  right  beau!  I  guess 
that's  a  pretty  bad  little  pun!" 

"It  is  pretty  bad,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  smile,  as 
she  set  down  the  tray  on  the  desk. 

Alec  saw  the  smile,  and  smiled  himself.  The 
end  justifies  the  means,  he  thought,  and  smiled 
again.  But  he  was  not  sure  of  his  ground.  He 
did  not  know  her  so  well  as  he  wished  he  did.  He 
had  never  known  her  well,  for  her  father,  despite  his 
learning,  had  repelled  him,  and  since  the  father's 
death  Margaret  had  lived  almost  like  a  hermit. 
Yet,  as  he  looked  at  her  now,  with  her  odd,  flower- 
like  face  above  the  sombre  black  of  her  dress,  in 
this  strange,  dingy  old  room,  and  thought  of  his 
friend  Tommy  Trask  in  love  with  that  face,  strug- 


102  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

gling  vainly  to  win  her  from  her  gloomy  retreat,  to 
read  the  closed  chapters  in  her  life  history  which 
forbade  him,  Alec  was  filled  with  determination. 
Here  was  a  more  interesting  human  problem  than  he 
had  guessed. 

"What  was  that  you  were  playing  as  I  came 
through  the  garden?"  he  asked. 

"A  Russian  thing,"  she  answered.  "I  adapted  it 
myself  from  a  folk  song.  It  somehow  fits  the  view 
from  that  window." 

"It  does!"  said  Alec,  with  conviction.  "Your 
fiance  was  Russian,  wasn't  he?" 

The  girl's  cup,  he  noticed,  trembled  in  her  hand. 
"Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  tone. 

"He  was  a  musician,  too?" 

"Yes" — still  lower — "he — he  was  studying  the 
'cello." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Alec  abruptly,  "that  he 
would  want  you  to  hide  your  light  forever  under  a 
bushel?  Don't  you  think  you  are  rather  selfish, 
too,  in  this  life  you  live?  An  artist  especially  has  a 
duty  to  others — at  any  rate,  a  good  artist  has." 

The  hand  that  held  the  cup  trembled  so  now  that 
she  set  the  cup  down  on  the  desk  with  a  little  clatter. 

"I — I  can't  play  in  public,"  she  said.  "I — I 
never  could." 

Alec  ignored  this.     "There's  a  tablet  down  in 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  103 

the  church  which  you  may  recall,"  he  said.  "It 
reads,  'In  loving  memory  of  Sarah  Rollins,  for  many 
years  a  member  of  this  church  and  a  teacher  in  the 
Sunday-school.*  I  used  to  think  that  poor  Sarah's 
life  history  was  meagre  enough;  but  you  don't  even 
teach  in  the  Sunday-school.  Why,  Sarah  was  a 
riotous  agitator  and  mighty  philanthropist  com- 
pared to  you!  And  you  only  twenty-nine,  with  a 
face  like  a  flower  and  the  gift  of  God  in  your  fingers ! " 

"You — you  are  very  brutal,"  said  the  girl,  avert- 
ing her  face,  and  evidently  near  to  tears. 

"Yes  sir-ee,  and  I  meant  to  be!"  the  Bird  Man 
exclaimed.  "You,  only  twenty-nine " 

"I'm  thirty!"  she  half  whispered,  but  with  sur- 
prising vehemence.  "I'll  be  thirty-one  in  a  few 
months!" 

"Thirty!  what's  that?  I'm  fifty-four,  and  mak- 
ing trouble  all  the  time!  See  here,  I  want  you  to 
play  at  my  Audubon  show  week  after  next.  Any- 
body that  can  play  in  private  as  you  play,  can  per- 
form in  public.  Ruth — you  know  Ruth  Barnes, 
who  just  married  a  young  painter  named  Eliot,  fine 
chap,  too — is  going  to  sing.  You  might  at  least 
play  an  obbligato  for  her.  Come,  will  you?  " 

"Oh,  I  couldn't— I  couldn't,"  she  answered.  "I 
never  played  in  public — not  since  I  was  little,  I 
mean,  and  couldn't  help  it." 


104  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Never?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  in  spite  of  herself,  for  his  kindly 
eyes  were  upon  her  face,  and  suddenly  exclaimed: 
"It's  a  lie!  I  did  play  in  public — hi  Paris — not  once, 
often,  night  after  night — hi  a  cafe.  I  shall  never 
forget  it!  I  can  see  them — the  people — the  men- 
staring  at  me  yet!  I  won't,  /  won't,  do  it  again!" 

Alec  veiled  his  surprise  by  setting  down  his  tea- 
cup. "Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said  gently.  "Did 
you  have  to  raise  money?  Wasn't  your  father 
sending  you  enough?" 

The  girl  was  sitting  on  the  black  haircloth  sofa, 
her  black  gown  almost  indistinguishable  against  it, 
twisting  and  untwisting  a  white  handkerchief  with 
nervous  fingers.  Her  hands  and  the  bit  of  linen 
were  startling  distinct.  She  did  not  look  up,  but 
nodded  her  head  affirmatively. 

"That  was  hard,"  said  the  Bird  .House  Man. 
"But  it  was,  also,  a  long  time  ago,  in  Paris.  This 
is  hi  Southmead,  among  all  your  friends." 

" Friends ! "  she  cried.     "  What  friends  have  I?  " 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "there's  at  least  an  eccentric 
old  chap  who  chases  birds  with  field  glasses,  and  a 
youngish  doctor  who's  much  concerned  over  the 
state  of  your  stomach " 

Alec  saw  the  slip  of  handkerchief  wrapped  sud- 
denly and  convulsively  about  her  fingers. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  105 

"He — he's  been  talking  to  you?"  she  cried  out, 
like  one  hurt. 

"A  little,"  said  Alec.  "He  wanted  to  know  how 
to  get  the  hermit  out  of  her  solitariness,  for  solitari- 
ness is  bad  for  the  nerves,  and  the  nerves  are  bad 
for  the  stomach." 

"  Stomach ! "  said  Margaret,  almost  bitterly. 

"The  stomach  is  not  to  be  scorned,"  the  man  re- 
torted. "A  cup  of  coffee  at  the  right  moment,  as 
William  James  said,  can  alter  a  man's  whole  philos- 
ophy of  life.  Also,  it  can  alter  his  wife's." 

"The  trouble  with  my  stomach  is,  I  didn't  have 
meat  enough  when  I  was  little,"  Margaret  answered. 
"You  can  tell  Doctor  Trask  that,  if  he  really  wants 
to  know!" 

"You  are  a  little  unfair  to  both  of  us,"  said  the 
Bird  House  Man  gently.  "I  don't  matter;  but 
Tommy  is  in  love  with  you,  and  you  ought  to  think 
of  that." 

The  woman  on  the  couch  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face  and  yanked  her  handkerchief  loose.  "Don't 
you  believe  I  think  of  it?"  she  cried.  "Don't  you 
believe  I  think  of  it  night  and  day?  Oh,  if  there 
were  some  way — some  way — I  think  I  shall  go 
mad!" 

"No,  you  won't  go  mad,"  the  man  answered, 
leaning  forward  and  taking  the  wisp  of  white  from 


106  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

her  fingers.  He  laid  it  on  the  seat  beside  her  and 
patted  her  hand  lightly.  "You'll  tell  me,  instead. 
You  remember  how,  when  you  were  a  little  girl, 
you  came  once  and  tossed  bread  to  my  swans,  and 
fell  in  the  pond,  and  had  to  have  your  clothes  dried 
in  my  kitchen,  and  I  told  you  stories?  Come,  you 
tell  me  a  story  now — your  story.  That  will  help, 
won't  it?" 

She  raised  her  tortured  face  to  his  and  met  his 
kindly  gaze.  For  a  long  moment  she  hesitated, 
and  then  she  cried  out  sharply:  "I  lied  again  to 
you,  just  now!  I  didn't  play  in  the  cafe  because 
father  didn't  send  me  enough  allowance!  I  played 
to  get  money  to  buy  this!" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  where  the  diamond  glistened 
on  the  third  finger.  "This,  this,  this!"  she  reiter- 
ated, suddenly  tearing  off  the  ring  and  letting  it 
fall  on  the  floor.  Then  she  turned  abruptly  away, 
and  her  head  sank  down  against  the  couch,  as  if 
what  she  had  done  had  taken  all  her  strength. 

Alec  Farnum  was  too  astounded  at  first  to  make 
any  reply.  He  saw  the  ring  glistening  on  the  faded 
rag  rug  at  her  feet,  he  saw  her  bowed,  heaving,  black- 
clad  shoulders.  An  irrelevant  song  sparrow  was  sing- 
ing just  outside  the  window,  gayly,  full-throated. 
Somewhere  off  in  the  house  a  big  clock  was  sleepily 
ticking  the  seconds.  So  he  let  her  sob  for  a  long 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  107 

moment,  dry  and  soundless  sobs;  and  then  he  touched 
her  shoulder. 

"But  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  "You 
bought  the  ring?  Your  lover,  was  he  so  poor?" 

"Poor?  "  She  raised  her  head.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand? There  was  no  lover!  I  was  never  engaged. 
It  was  all  a  lie,  a  lie,  a  lie!  I've  been  living  a  lie  for 
eight  years!  I've  been  living  a  lie  till  sometimes  I 
almost  thought  it  was  the  truth.  And  now  it*s 
caught  me,  caught  me  in  a  trap,  like  a  rat,  like  a 
prisoner  behind  bars — for  life,  life,  life!  Oh,  why 
did  he  come?  " 

Alec  moved  to  her  side  on  the  couch,  and  took 
her  hand.  "Margaret,"  he  said  firmly,  "I  am  your 
friend,  and  Tommy  Trask's  friend.  I  want  you  to 
fix  that  firmly  in  your  mind.  Then  I  want  you  to 
fix  this  firmly  in  your  mind:  You  are  not  in  a  prison. 
Nobody  is  ever  in  a  prison  who  has  the  will  to 
escape,  and  good  friends  on  the  outside.  Now,  you 
are  going  to  be  calm,  very  calm,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it.  Begin  quite  at  the  beginning.  That  will  be 
easiest.  Tell  me  everything.  Then  you'll  feel 
better,  and  we'll  see  the  way  out." 

She  sat  up  and  clasped  his  fingers  shyly,  timidly, 
like  a  child  unused  to  kindness. 

"It's  so  hard  to  tell,"  she  said.  "I've  never  told 
things.  I've  never  had  anybody  to  tell  them  to." 


108  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"You  have  now,"  said  Alec.  "You  will  always 
have  now!" 

Margaret  raised  wet  eyes  to  his,  and  seemed  to 
find  comfort.  "You  remember  father,"  she  began, 
"you  knew — everybody  knew — how  strange  he  was. 
But  you  can't  know  what  my  life,  and  mother's 
life,  was  like.  I  can't  tell  you.  We  were  afraid  of 
him,  I  think,  and  yet  he  had  some  power  to  hold  us. 
He  was  so  full  of  contradictions!  I've  seen  him 
weep  when  I  played  to  him,  and  then  let  mother  or 
me  shovel  coal  on  the  furnace  five  minutes  later. 
Poor,  poor  mother!  Yet  she  never  seemed  to  ques- 
tion, and  I  didn't  learn  to,  either.  It  just  seemed 
inevitable — we  had  to  do  what  father  said.  It  was 
our  duty,  our  fate." 

"Votes  for  women!"  Alec  exclaimed,  with  a  hah* 
laugh  that  hid  the  savagery  of  his  tone. 

The  girl  did  not  smile.  "Mother  died  when  I 
was  eighteen,  you  may  remember.  I  had  to  stay 
then,  to  keep  house  for  father.  He  had  nobody 
else,  and  besides,  I  thought  he  was  as  poor  as  he 
said.  I  did  so  want  to  go  to  college!  But  father 
didn't  believe  in  educating  women — only  men.  He 
wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He  said  if  I  played  the  violin 
that  was  enough.  Then  I  asked  him  to  let  me  go 
somewhere  and  study  to  be  a  concert  player,  so  I 
could  earn  money;  but  he  wouldn't  let  me  do  that, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  109 

either.  He — he — oh,  he  just  kept  me  a  prisoner 
here  for  three  years ! 

"But  that  wasn't  the  worst.  One  day  he  looked 
at  me  funnily,  and  said — I  can  hear  them  yet,  his 
words,  and  feel  how  they  sank  down  my  cold  spine!— 
'Well,  daughter,  you  are  grown  up  now.  We  must 
find  a  husband  for  you!  Then  you  can  take  your 
poor  old  father  to  live  with  you  in  comfort.'  I  knew, 
somehow,  I  can't  tell  you  how,  that  he  had  selected 
somebody.  He  had.  It  was  a  man  in  Southmead — 
never  mind  who — I  won't  tell  you — but  when  father 
brought  him  home  to  dinner  that  night  I  thought  I 
should  die  of  rage  and  shame  and — and  horror. 
He— he  tried  to " 

She  paused,  with  a  shiver,  and  Alec  patted  her 
hand  in  silence. 

"I  had  a  flare  up,  for  once,"  she  went  on.  "I 
told  father  I'd  run  away  before  I'd  marry  that  man. 
I  said  if  he'd  let  me  go  away  and  study  for  the  con- 
cert stage,  I'd  promise  to  support  him,  to  give  him 
half  my  earnings.  My  teacher  told  him  I  could 
probably  make  a  success.  He  let  me  go — to  Paris. 
That  was  eight  years  ago.  Paris!  Dear,  gay, 
beautiful  Paris !  It  was  all  a  new  world  to  me.  I 
lived  with  some  distant  cousins  of  mother's,  the 
Thompsons.  Mr.  Thompson  was  French  agent  for 
an  American  sewing  machine.  I  studied  hard,  oh, 


110  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

so  hard,  and  I  heard  operas  and  concerts  and  plays. 
That  heaven  lasted  four  months.  Then  father  be- 
gan to  write  for  me  to  come  back.  He  said  his 
work  wasn't  selling  well,  and  he  couldn't  afford  to 
pay  the  housekeeper.  He  talked  of  my  duty  to  him, 
said  he  was  sick — oh,  you  can  guess.  I — I  felt  I 
had  to  go.  I  don't  know  whether  I  should  feel  so 
now.  All  I  thought  of  then  was  the  fact  that  he  was 
my  father.  But  I  knew  what  would  happen  after 
I  got  home  again,  and  one  day  the  idea  came  to  me 
— the  idea  of  the  lie!  There  was  a  Russian  student 
who  had  just  died.  He  and  I  had  been  to  some  con- 
certs together.  Poor  fellow,  he  had  no  lungs,  and 
his  whole  soul  was  always  shining  out  of  his  great 
eyes  above  his  hollow  cheeks.  He  had  given  me  his 
picture.  He  had  been,  even,  to  my  cousins'  house 
to  see  me.  If  he  had  any  relatives  of  his  own  they 
were  far  away  in  Russia.  I  wrote  to  father  that  I 
was  engaged  to  him!  I  told  my  cousins  so,  too.  I 
borrowed  from  another  student  enough  money  to 
buy  the  ring,  and  then  I  played  in  a  cafe  to  pay  it 
back.  My  cousin  helped  me  get  my  mourning  outfit. 
Nobody  ever  knew,  ever  guessed,  the  truth.  When 
I'd  paid  the  money  back  I  came  home — in  mourning, 
with  that  poor,  lying  ring  on  my  finger!" 

She  looked  down  to  the  floor,  and  kicked  the  dia- 
mond farther  away  from  her. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  111 

"Well,"  she  went  on  presently,  "father  respected 
my  black  for  a  while,  and  life  went  on  as  before.  I 
hadn't  progressed  far  enough  to  try  concert  work, 
even  if  I  could  have  broken  into  the  field  and  lived 
in  Southmead  at  the  same  time.  Besides,  every 
time  I  thought  of  my  only  public  appearances,  my 
whole  soul  was  filled  with  rage  and  a  kind  of  hatred 
of  life  and  fate.  I  wouldn't  have  played,  I  believe, 
if  we  had  been  starving.  After  two  or  three  years, 
though,  father  began  to  talk  about  marriage  again, 
just  by  hints  at  first,  and  then  more  and  more  openly. 
Finally  I  began  to  dread  to  come  down  to  the  table 
for  breakfast.  He  said  I  should  respect  his  gray 
hairs,  he  said  I  should  be  making  a  home  for  him, 
he  said  I  shouldn't  let  his  line  perish  from  the  earth 
—oh,  I  don't  know  what  he  said!  Finally  he  began 
to  reproach  me  for  still  wearing  black,  and  he  began 
to  invite  men  to  the  house  again,  and  made  me  play, 
and  talked  about  my  cooking,  and — and — it  was  as 
if  I  were  being  offered  to  them!  Sometimes  I  could 
have  killed  them,  and  killed  myself!  And,  don't 
you  see,  all  this  time,  my  ring  and  my  black 
were  my  only  protection?  But  if  any  man  had 
come  who  wasn't — wasn't  repellent,  who  could 
have  taken  me  away,  I'd  have  gone  with  him 
then,  I  believe.  Only  there  were  none  like  that  to 
come.  You  know,  that  kind  doesn't  stay  in  South- 


112  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

mead.  They  go  away  to  college  and  never  come 
back." 

"Poor  child!"  said  Alec  Farmim.  "Poor  child! 
This  grim  old  bogey  again  of  our  'duty'  to  our 
parents!  But  now  the  right  man  has  come,  hasn't 
he?" 

The  woman  put  her  hands  before  her  face.  "  Yes," 
she  whispered.  "Yes!  That  is  the  terrible  part  of 
it.  Perhaps  if  I'd  dropped  my  mourning  after 
father  died,  it  would  be  easier  now.  But  I  didn't. 
I'd  got  used  to  it.  It  was  still  a  protection,  too. 
The  rumour  got  about  that  father  had  left  a  lot  of 
money,  and  these  same  men  came,  like  vultures, 
still.  I  had  to  show  them  the  door  somehow. 
They  don't  come  now!  But  mostly  I'd  got  used  to 
it.  I — I  was  broken.  I  was  too  old  to  begin  a 
life  of  my  own  then.  There  wasn't  much  money, 
really — not  enough  to  travel  with  very  far,  even  if 
I'd  wanted  to  travel.  I  just  wanted  to  rest  awhile, 
in  peace.  So  I  stayed  here,  and  wore  my  ring  and 
my  black,  and  rested,  and  pretended  it  was  true — 
yes,  I  did.  I  pretended  I'd  been  in  love  and  had 
that  much  of  the  life  that  comes  to  happy  women!" 

"The  sooner  you  get  the  silly  old  New  England 
notion  out  of  your  head  that  a  woman  who  isn't 
married  when  she's  twenty-five  has  no  love  life 
left,  the  better  off  you'll  be,"  said  Alec  briskly. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  113 

"Come,  come,  Margaret,  brace  up!  What  you  need 
is  a  big  dose  of  modern  feminism,  and  a  bright  green 
dress,  and  Tommy  Trask's  society!" 

He  laughed  with  his  big  bass  chuckle.  But  she 
only  raised  her  eyes  to  him  in  wonder,  saying: 
"What  do  you  mean?  What  life  have  I  now  but 
just  to  go  on?" 

"What  life  have  you,  you  poor,  silly  female? 
Why,  the  merry,  carefree,  luxurious  life  of  a  strug- 
gling country  general  practitioner's  helpmate,  to  be 
sure!"  said  the  Bird  House  Man. 

Still  she  regarded  him  without  comprehension. 
"But  the  lie,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  go  to  him  after 
the  lie.  He  would  never  forgive  me.  He  is  so 
honest,  so  direct,  so  intolerant  of  weakness,  too. 
He  would  hate  me  if  he  knew,  and  I  couldn't  go  to 
him  if  he  didn't  know." 

"I  understand  exactly  how  you  feel,"  the  man 
answered  gently.  "Of  course,  you  would  feel  that 
way.  If  you  didn't,  I'd  be  ashamed  of  you.  But 
just  remember  this:  Tommy  fell  in  love  with  you 
before  he  knew.  So  now,  when  you  tell  him,  you 
can  never  reproach  yourself  with  the  fact  that  it  was 
pity  made  him  love  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  still  groping. 
"Pity  me?  He'll  hate  me,  despise  me!" 

"I  guess  you  don't  know  Tommy  Trask  very  well 


114  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

yet,"  Alec  replied.  "Do  I  hate  you?  Not  much! 
I  pity  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and,  if 
you  want  to  know  the  full  truth,  I  also  rather  ad- 
mire you  for  putting  over  a  pretty  clever  bluff  for 
eight  years!  Do  you  think  Tommy  won't  pity  you, 
too,  and  just  hold  out  his  arms  to  you?  No — he 
won't — he'll  grab  you,  willy-nilly.'* 

"If — if  I  tell  him,  he'll  forgive  me,  he  won't  despise 
me?"  she  whispered,  incredulous. 

"Child,  child,  there's  nothing  to  forgive,  I  tell 
you!"  Alec  cried.  "There's  only  a  state  of  con- 
science imposed  on  the  world  by  Calvinism  and  con- 
vention, to  grind  one's  teeth  at.  The  only  thing  he, 
or  I,  couldn't  forgive  in  you  would  be  the  failure  of 
your  will  to  meet  this  chance.  You've  taken  off 
that  ring,  your  lie  is  on  the  floor  there,  in  the  dust. 
The  unforgivable  thing  in  this  life  is  the  lack  of  will 
to  tread  down  our  weaknesses  and  sins  and  disasters 
and  mount  from  them  to  happiness  or  a  fuller  life. 
Come,  tell  me  to  pick  up  the  ring,  and  pawn  it,  and 
give  the  money  to — to — what  shall  we  say?  The 
visiting  nurse  fund?" 

"No,"  said  Margaret.  "Give  it  to  the  birds, 
your  birds,  for  their  protection." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man.  He 
stooped,  picked  up  the  diamond,  and  dropped  it  into 
his  pocket.  "There!"  he  cried.  "The  symbol  of 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  115 

your  lie  has  already  gone  to  brighten  the  world  with 
bird  song  and  wing  flash!  Now,  one  promise  more. 
Will  you  put  on  a  coloured  dress  to-morrow,  before 
Tommy  comes  to  see  you?" 

"I — I  haven't  got  one,"  she  said,  "or  only  old 
things  in  a  trunk." 

"Just  as  good — he'll  never  know,"  said  Alec. 
"Sit  up  all  night  and  sew  'em  into  new  styles,  if 
you  have  to.  When  you  get  on  a  green  dress  you'll 
tell  him  easier." 

"Tell  him!"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  I  can't  do  that! 
No,  no,  I  can't!  You — you  tell  him." 

Alec  shook  his  head.  "You  know  better  than 
that,"  he  said.  "Don't  you?" 

"I  can't,"  she  whispered. 

"Don't  you?  Don't  you  know  that  you  must 
tell  him — just  what  you've  told  me?  That  you'll 
never  be  happy  till  you  have  told  him?  That  life 
will  never  be  right?  That  all  the  joyous  future  you 
thought  was  denied  you  depends  on  it?  " 

"  But  I  dread  it  so !     Will  he  feel  the  way  you  say? 

"Never  mind  how  he  feels!  You  owe  it  to  him. 
He  loves  you.  The  only  sin  you  can  commit  now 
is  the  sin  of  silence.  Put  that  in  your  conscience 
and  smoke  it,"  Alec  cried. 

"It's  my  duty  to  tell  him — yes — I  see  that  now," 
she  said  slowly. 


116  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"  Your  duty,  put  it  that  way,"  he  answered.  "  But 
some  joyous  day  we'll  abolish  the  damn  word  from 
the  dictionary." 

"You  shouldn't  swear,"  said  Margaret,  with  the 
faint  hint  of  a  smile. 

The  Bird  House  Man  clapped  his  hands  merrily 
on  his  knees,  and  rose  to  his  feet,  a  big,  burly  figure 
above  the  black  figure  on  the  couch.  "Swear?" 
he  said.  "I'm  going  out  now  and  curse  the  weeds 
in  your  garden  till  they  wither  at  the  roots!  But 
day  after  to-morrow  I  return  with  Ruth  to  practise 
that  duet — and  don't  you  forget  it,  either!" 

"Day  after  to-morrow  I  shall  be  ready  either  for 
the  duet  or — or  death,"  said  Margaret  Weir,  with  a 
sob  in  her  voice. 

Alec  took  both  her  ice-cold  hands  and  held  them  a 
second.  "Nonsense!"  said  he.  "You'll  be  ready 
for  the  dressmaker." 

He  strode  out  of  the  door,  and  through  the  garden, 
waist  high  in  the  goldenrod  and  hardback  and  milk- 
weed by  the  river  bank,  whistling  as  he  went,  and 
pounded  fifteen  minutes  later  on  Doctor  Trask's 
door. 

"Thomas,"  said  he,  "I've  read  the  book,  from  the 
first  chapter  to  the  present.  It's  not  half  through 
yet!" 

The  doctor's  face  sobered,  and  then  grew  strangely 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  117 

joyous  as  he  saw  the  elation  in  his  friend's  counte- 
nance. 

"Tell  me,  tell  me!"  he  cried. 

"No,  you  go  there  to-morrow  afternoon  and  read 
it  for  yourself.  Mind  you,  not  till  to-morrow  after- 
noon! If  Mrs.  King  thinks  she's  going  to  die,  let 
her.  If  all  the  town  takes  sick,  let  'em  perish.  You 
go  to  Bleak  House  and  read  that  book.  It's  a  strange, 
strange  story,  Tommy,  stranger  than  I  knew.  You 
may  weep  before  you  come  to  the  present  chapter — 
but  the  ending  is  up  to  you." 

He  went  out  abruptly,  striding  down  the  street. 

The  Bird  House  Man  did  not  see  Dr.  Thomas 
Trask  the  following  evening.  He  called  him  up, 
but  a  voice  answered  that  the  doctor  had  gone  out 
that  afternoon  and  had  not  returned.  Alec  Farnum 
grinned  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver.  On  the  next 
afternoon  he  and  Ruth  Eliot  tramped  up  the  road, 
through  the  dark  spruces,  and  pounded  the  knocker 
on  the  door  of  that  gloomy  dwelling.  The  ancient 
maid  admitted  them.  They  went  into  the  library. 
There  were  four  vases  of  flowers  in  the  room!  It 
was  almost  ten  minutes  before  Margaret  Weir  en- 
tered, and  Ruth  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  for 
she  was  wearing  a  white  dress  with  a  bright  green 
ash  of  ancient  pattern  at  her  waist,  and  a  bright 


118  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

green  ribbon  at  her  throat.  Her  colour  was  high, 
her  face  like  a  freshened  flower  on  a  tall,  slender 
stalk. 

"Excuse  me  for  keeping  you  waiting,"  she  said, 
"but  I  was  having  a  dress  tried  on." 

Alec  whispered  to  her  while  Ruth  was  unpacking 
the  music. 

"You  had  a  supper  party  in  this  house  last  night!'* 
he  said.  "Highly  improper,  I  call  it!" 

"I  hope  it  was!"  she  whispered  back.  "Oh,  dear 
Mr.  Alec,  we  had  so  much  to  say!  And  after  it  all 
we  spoke  of  you,  again  and  again!" 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  Bird  House  Man.  "You 
talked  about  the  last  chapter." 

"The  last  chapter?    I  don't  understand." 

"Good,  you  don't  need  to.  Come,  Ruth,  are  you 
ready?" 

Five  minutes  later  Ruth's  clear,  fresh,  girlish 
soprano  was  floating  out  over  the  weed-tangled 
garden,  buoyed  up  on  the  deep-voiced  melody  of  the 
violin,  and  the  Bird  House  Man  sat  on  the  haircloth 
sofa  and  smiled.  The  aria  was  from  Mozart. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   JACKDAW 

ALEC  FARNUM  was  hurrying  down  the  Bush 
Hill  Road  in  the  gathering  night  of  late  September. 
He  had  been  caught  by  twilight  far  afield,  up  at 
Loon  Pond,  where  he  was  on  the  watch  for  migrating 
wild  duck,  and  already  he  was  anticipating  Mrs. 
Plumb's  rage,  for  he  knew  his  housekeeper  had 
planned  an  omelette  souffle  for  supper  that  evening. 
He  came  to  a  break  in  the  fence  presently,  and 
climbed  through  the  bars,  taking  a  short  cut  over  a 
pasture  which  would  bring  him  down  through  Aunt 
Sally  Jane's  yard,  past  her  little  mouse-gray  dwelling 
with  its  lean-to  roof  behind — a  relic  of  the  eighteenth 
century — to  the  main  road  into  Southmead.  He 
strode  rapidly  over  the  uneven  ground,  finding  the 
track  by  the  woodsman's  instinct  in  his  feet.  But 
as  he  crested  the  low  ridge  behind  Aunt  Sally 
Jane's  dwelling  and  came  into  her  old  orchard 
(which  smelled  of  ripe  apples),  he  paused  sud- 
denly, arrested  by  the  sight  of  a  lantern  gleam- 
ing on  the  ground  under  one  of  the  trees  nearest 
the  house,  and  the  little  black,  bent  figure  of  Aunt 

no 


120  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Sally  Jane  herself  beside  it,  digging  laboriously  with 
a  huge  spade. 

Alec  stopped  still  and  watched.  He  wondered  if 
one  of  her  cats  were  dead,  and  this  were  its  funeral. 
"Its  name  should  have  been  Sir  John  Moore,"  he 
smiled  to  himself. 

But  a  moment  later  Aunt  Sally  Jane  stooped  and 
picked  up  a  small  box,  laid  it  in  the  hole  carefully, 
and  began  to  put  back  the  earth.  The  box  was  too 
small  to  have  held  anything  but  a  kitten,  and  Aunt 
Sally  Jane's  cats  were  never  kittens.  They  were 
always  large,  old,  lazy  creatures,  who  lay  purring  on 
an  oval  rag  rug  before  the  kitchen  fire.  Alec  Far- 
num  stepped  down  quickly  through  the  orchard,  and 
said: 

"What  ho,  avast  there,  Cap'n  Kidd!  Are  you 
burying  Spanish  doubloons  in  yon  chest?" 

Aunt  Sally  Jane  dropped  the  spade  with  a  startled 
cry,  and  it  knocked  over  the  lantern.  "Oh,  my 
Lord!  Oh,  my  Lord!  Oh,  my  Lord !"  she  cried. 

Alec  came  close  and  picked  up  the  lantern,  which 
had  not  gone  out,  the  flame  merely  smoking  up  one 
side  of  the  chimney. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  scare  you,  Aunt  Sally  Jane," 
said  he. 

"Well,  you  mayn't  hev  meant  to,  but  you  done 
it,  jest  the  same,"  said  she.  "Oh,  my  Lord!" 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  121 

"There,  there,"  he  laughed.  "I  was  taking  a 
short  cut  home,  and  it  surprised  me  to  find  you  bury- 
ing your  Spanish  gold." 

"Spanish  fiddlesticks!"  said  Aunt  Sally  Jane. 
"I  might  ez  well  tell  you  what's  in  thet  box.  You're 
the  only  person  I  would  tell,  though.  It's  my 
bond." 

"Your  what?" 

"My  bond.  Land's  sake,  you  ain't  forgot,  hev 
you?  You  bo'ght  it  for  me  five  year  ago,  with  thet 
thousand  dollars  I  got  fer  my  north  pasture  I  sold 
to  them  summer  folks  fer  their  *cottage.'  Cottage! 
They  got  ten  bedrooms  in  it  an*  six  bath  tubs  an' 
a  kitchen  range  ez  big  ez  a  steamboat.  Cottage! 
Little  pungkins  and  sour  cucumbers!  You  told  me 
thet  bond  wa'n't  registered,  so's  I'd  hev  to  keep  it 
careful.  Here's  where  I  keep  it.  It's  all  right 
diggin'  it  up  now  fer  the  October  coopon,  but  some- 
times in  March  the  frost  ain't  out,  and  it's  powerful 
hard  work." 

"Why,  Aunt  Sally  Jane,  you  foolish  old  thing, 
you!  I  told  you  to  keep  it  at  the  bank,  in  a  safe 
deposit  box!"  Alec  laughed. 

"Safe  deposit  box,  fiddlesticks!"  answered  the 
old  lady.  "Why  would  I  be  payin'  five  dollars  out 
o'  my  fifty  fer  a  swaller's  nest  in  a  bank  thet  may  be 
busted  open  by  burglars  any  time?  I  don't  trust  no 


122  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

banks !    A  burglar's  more  likely  to  be  huntin*  'round 
a  bank  then  lie  is  my  backyard,  I  calc'late." 

"Well,  maybe  there's  something  in  that,"  Alec 
laughed.  "Here,  let  me  help  you  finish  the  job. 
Why  do  you  do  it  at  night?" 

"I  don't  wanter  be  seen,  do  I?"  she  answered. 

"Then  why  the  lantern?" 

"I  got  to  see,  myself,  ain't  I?" 

There  was  surely  no  reply  to  this,  and  Alec  started 
to  pick  up  the  spade,  but  she  took  it  from  him.  "I 
know  how  ter  do  this  better'n  you,"  she  declared. 

She  finished  filling  back  the  earth,  then  she  re- 
placed the  square  of  sod  and  hammered  it  down  with 
the  flat  of  the  spade.  Then,  with  a  rake,  she  care- 
fully spread  over  the  spot  a  pile  of  leaves  which 
Alec  had  not  noticed  before.  To  the  casual  eye,  all 
traces  of  the  digging  were  hidden. 

"There!"  she  said,  "I  calc'late  nobody'd  guess 
there  wuz  a  thousand  dollars  lyin'  there  waitin* 
fer  spring  ter  sprout  a  nice  twenty-five-dollar  coopon 
again!  Don't  you  never  let  on,  Alec  Farnum!  I 
trust  you.  Oh,  my  Lord,  ef  it  hed  been  anybody 
else!" 

"I'll  never  let  on,  hope  to  die,"  said  Alec,  carry- 
ing the  old  lady's  spade,  rake,  and  lantern  back  to 
her  woodshed  for  her,  and  handing  her  gallantly  hi 
at  her  kitchen  door. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  123 

Then  he  hurried  on  down  the  road  to  his  supper, 
chuckling  to  himself,  and  thinking  how  much  her 
little  black  form,  as  she  dug  away,  resembled  a  pic- 
ture he  had  seen  somewhere,  long  ago,  of  a  jackdaw 
burying  a  stolen  ring. 

It  was  a  whole  year  later  that  Alec  again  came 
down  through  Aunt  Sally  Jane's  orchard,  but  this 
time  it  was  while  the  daylight  still  showed  the  gather- 
ing gold  and  scarlet  on  the  hills.  He  had  been  to 
see  her  in  the  interim,  of  course,  for  he  made  it  a 
point  whenever  he  passed  to  look  in  on  the  little 
old  lady  to  see  if  she  were  in  any  need.  Aunt  Sally 
Jane,  living  on  ancestral  acres  whence  all  but  she 
of  the  old  Flint  line  had  fled,  was  a  relic  of  another 
generation,  almost  of  another  order,  and  Alec  loved 
her  if  only  for  her  picturesqueness  and  for  the  sense 
she  brought  him  of  other  and  vanished  days.  But  it 
was  not  till  the  wild  duck  were  once  more  starting 
southward  that  he  had  occasion  to  come  down 
through  the  orchard  into  the  more  intimate  life 
of  the  backyard,  where  the  chickens  strolled  about 
and  a  pot  cheese  usually  hung  in  a  white  bag  by  the 
kitchen  door. 

Alec  was  thinking  of  the  bond  as  he  crested  the 
low  ridge  behind  the  orchard,  wondering  if  Aunt 
Sally  Jane  had  dug  it  up  yet.  When  he  came  in 
sight  of  the  house,  however,  he  was  unprepared  for 


124  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

the  spectacle  which  greeted  him.  Aunt  Sally  Jane, 
wrapped  in  a  rusty  woollen  shawl,  with  her  feet 
propped  up  on  a  low  three-legged  stool,  was  sitting 
in  a  rocking  chair  beside  the  kitchen  door,  while  on 
a  piece  of  clothes-line  stretched  from  the  door  to 
the  nearest  apple  tree,  suspended  by  two  clothes- 
pins was  a  sheet  of  paper  which  bore  unmistakable 
evidences  of  that  peculiar  green  engraving  char- 
acteristic of  such  commercial  art  works  as  bonds 
and  stock  certificates.  Alec  drew  near  rapidly, 
reassuring  the  old  lady  from  afar  as  to  his  identity, 
for  he  saw  her  scrambling  hastily  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  my  Lord!  it's  only  you  again,  Alec!"  she 
cried,  in  breathless  gratitude. 

Alec  looked  closer  at  the  paper  on  the  line.  It 
was  the  bond.  "Are  you  washing  your  bond  to 
make  it  more  valuable,  Aunt  Sally  Jane?"  he  asked. 

"I  ain't  washin'  it,  no;  I'm  a-dryin'  it,"  she  said. 
"I  couldn't  leave  it  flappin'  hi  this  wind,  with  tramps 
about,  too,  so  I  jest  plunked  down  here  an'  hev  been 
settin'  guard,  ez  yer  might  say." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  the  man  asked. 
"It  looks  as  if  it  needed  washing,  anyhow." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it!  What's  the  matter 
with  thet  fool  Barney  Killam,  you'd  better  ask!" 
she  sniffed.  "Do  you  know  what  thet  man  done? 
He  come  here  to  rake  up  my  windfalls  fer  the  cider 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  125 

mill — I  get  ten  cents  a  bushel  fer  'em  this  year, 
which  yer  might  say  is  tainted  money,  I  s'pose, 
seein's  how  hard  cider's  the  curse  o'  this  region, 
but  it  ain't  worryin'  me  p'raps  ez  much  ez  it  ought — 
and  what  do  you  think  he  done?  He  raked  up  the 
whole  pile  o'  them  easy-rottin'  greenin's  plum  right 
over  where  thet  bond  wuz  buried.  'Course,  I 
couldn't  say  nothin',  or  move  'em,  so  I  jest  hoped 
the  team  would  come  an'  cart  'em  off  'fore  I  needed 
ter  dig  up  the  bond,  but  they  wa'n't  in  no  hurry, 
fer  once,  an'  them  greenin's  all  did  rot,  or  a  lot  of 
'em  did,  afore  the  team  come,  an'  when  I  dug  up  the 
bond  this  noon — yes,  I  dug  it  up  by  daylight  this 
time,  'cause  somebody  seen  me  with  the  lantern  last 
spring,  like  you  did  a  year  ago,  only  they  come  in 
from  the  road  an'  I  jest  had  time  to  go  be  takin' 
clothes  in — what  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  you  ought  to  have  buried  it  in  a  tin 
box,"  said  Alec. 

"Well,  I  calc'late  you're  right,"  the  old  lady 
went  on.  "Thet  pesky  box  hed  rotted  a  hole  right 
through  the  cover,  an'  the  rotten  apple  juice  hed 
gone  down  through  the  ground  an'  wetted  the  bond 
all  nasty.  Smelled  more  like  cider  then  it  did  like  a 
thousand  dollars." 

Alec  felt  of  it.  "It's  all  dry  now,"  he  said,  "and 
I  guess  it's  still  good  for  fifty  dollars  a  year." 


126  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Give  it  ter  me,"  the  old  lady  demanded.  "I'm 
goin'  ter  take  it  in  an'  iron  it  now,  an'  then  put  it  in 
a  new  place.  You  come  along.  I'll  show  you.  I 
was  goin'  to  tell  you,  anyhow.  I  got  somethin' 
to  ask  you,  somethin'  I  want  you  should  do  fer  me, 
if  I  were  took  off  sudden." 

"Why,  Aunt  Sally  Jane,  you'll  weep  at  my  fu- 
neral," said  Alec,  "or  I  hope  you'll  weep." 

"I  would  fer  sure,  if  I  went  to  it,"  said  she. 
"You're  a  good  boy,  Alec,  if  you  be  a  little  queer, 
and  your  father  wuz  a  good  man  afore  yer.  But 
I'm  gettin'  far  on  beyond  the  Scripture  span,  an' 
the  old  man  with  the  scythe  may  be  droppin'  down 
through  the  orchard  any  day,  an'  callin'  old  Aunt 
Sally  Jane." 

She  grasped  the  bond  in  her  thin,  aged  hand,  and 
entered  the  kitchen  door.  Alec  followed,  bringing 
her  chair  and  stool.  She  deposited  the  precious 
soiled  paper  on  an  ironing  board,  weighting  it  with  a 
cold  flatiron,  and  then  led  the  way  back  into  a 
small  shed  behind  the  kitchen,  which  served  as  an 
intermediary  storeroom  between  the  house  and  the 
woodshed.  Here  she  pointed  to  an  old,  battered 
two-quart  milk  can,  with  a  wooden  stopper,  which 
hung  suspended  from  a  nail  on  a  ceiling  beam  in  the 
corner. 

"You  see  thet  can?"  she  said.     "It  ain't  much 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  127 

good.  It  leaks.  But  in  about  half  an  hour  it'll  be 
worth  one  thousand  dollars !  Nobody  but  you  knows 
it.  I  don't  want  you  ter  fergit  it.  Take  a  good 
look,  an'  come  back  with  me." 

"But,  Aunt  Sally  Jane,  don't  do  that!"  Alec  pro- 
tested. "You'd  much  better  let  me  keep  the  bond 
for  you,  with  power  of  attorney  to  collect,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  I'd  give  you  a  cast-iron  receipt. 
What  if  your  house  should  burn  down?" 

"This  house  ain't  burned  down  since  1764,"  she 
answered,  "an'  it's  safer  then  rotten  apples,  I  guess. 
Thet  bond  ain't  goin'  ter  leave  my  lovin'  care  while 
I  know  it.  Not  thet  I  don't  trust  you,  Alec  Farnum. 
I  calc'late  I've  shown  thet." 

She  licked  her  finger  as  she  spoke,  tested  an  iron 
on  the  stove,  which  sizzled  satisfactorily,  and  laying 
a  cloth  over  the  bond  she  began  to  iron  it  energeti- 
cally. Alec  watched  her  in  helpless  amusement. 

"Now,  there's  somethin'  else  I  want  you  should 
do  fer  me,  though,"  she  said.  "This  bond  ain't 
never  to  go  to  none  o'  my  relatives,  blood  or  in-law! 
I  can't  very  well  keep  the  old  farm  away  from  'em, 
'tain't  natural-like  ter  do  it,  seein'  it's  belonged  to  a 
Flint  since  the  house  wuz  built  in  1764,  though 
it's  precious  little  my  nephies  an'  nieces  care 
about  it,  or  their  old  aunt,  either,  fer  the  matter  o' 
that!" 


128  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Here  she  ironed  the  last  corner  of  the  bond  with 
vicious  energy. 

'  'Course,  yer  might  say  this  bond  was  really  the 
farm,  too,  seein'  ez  how  it  come  from  sellin'  the  north 
pasture,  but  it  seems  different  ter  me,  somehow. 
Besides,  it's  all  I  got  ter  give  ter  Lucy  Snow,  an' 
she's  been  better  ter  me  than  my  own  kith  an'  kin 
ever  hev,  so  Lucy  is  goin'  ter  git  it,  an'  if  I  die  afore 
I've  screwed  up  my  courage  ter  make  a  will,  nobody 
in  the  world  will  know  whar  the  bond  is  but  you, 
Alec,  an'  you'll  go  git  it  an'  give  it  ter  Lucy,  an'  tell 
her  whar  it  come  from,  an'  how  old  Aunt  S.ally  Jane 
Flint's  blessin'  goes  along  with  it." 

"But  Aunt  Sally  Jane "  Alec  began. 

"Don't  Aunt  Sally  Jane  me — promise!"  said  the 
old  lady,  taking  the  bond  out  from  under  the  ironing 
cloth  and  inspecting  it. 

"But  you  must  make  a  will,"  Alec  urged.  "It 
would  be  illegal  for  me  to  touch  the  bond.  If  you 
want  Lucy  to  have  it,  you  must  make  a  will." 

"Illegal,  your  grandmother's  great  horned  spoon!" 
cried  Aunt  Sally  Jane.  "A  lot  thet  would  trouble 
one  o'  you  men!  I  guess  there's  nothin'  illegal  in 
me  givin'  what's  my  own  whar  I  please!  An'  I 
won't  make  a  will — not  now.  Ef  I  made  a  will, 
I'd  jest  feel  I  wuz  invitin'  the  old  reaper  right  in  at 
the  door,  an*  I'd  lay  me  down  in  my  bed  an'  wait  fer 

- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  129 

him.  I  got  a  kick  or  two  in  me  yet.  'Sides,  I 
want  ter  see  Lucy  Snow  ketch  the  right  young  man 
afore  I  go." 

She  bustled  to  a  table  drawer  and  brought  forth  a 
pair  of  shears.  With  these  she  cut  off  the  October 
coupon  from  the  bond,  put  that  carefully  under  a 
cold  flatiron,  and  beckoning  Alec  went  once  more 
into  the  shed.  There  she  ordered  Alec  to  take  down 
the  battered  old  milk  can.  Carefully  folding  the 
bond,  she  put  it  inside,  and  pounded  back  the  wooden 
stopper.  Then  Alec  hung  the  can  once  more  on  its 
nail. 

"Now,  thet's  the  most  valuable  milk  can  in  South- 
mead,"  the  old  lady  chuckled,  "an*  nobody  knows 
but  you  and  me.  Remember,  thet  bond's  fer  Lucy 
Snow.  Ef  she  don't  git  it,  I'll  come  back  an*  put  a 
curse  on  every  bird's  nest  in  your  garden,  Alec  Far- 
num,  ez  sure  ez  God  made  little  apples!" 

*'I  believe  you  would,"  said  he.  "Still,  you're 
going  to  make  your  will,  just  the  same.  Do  you 
want  me  to  get  this  coupon  cashed  for  you  at  the 
bank  to-morrow?" 

"I  do  my  own  bankin',  young  man,"  said  she, 
drawing  herself  up.  "Lucy  is  comin'  fer  me  with 
her  father's  hoss  an'  buggy  ter-morrer.  It  ain't  so- 
stylish  as  an  autymobile,  but  I'm  gettin'  conserva- 
tive in  my  declinin'  years." 


130  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Alec  helped  her  set  her  ironing  board  in  the  corner, 
brought  her  a  fresh  pail  of  water  from  the  well, 
patted  her  hands  affectionately,  and  departed,  smil- 
ing as  he  went. 

The  next  morning  he  saw  her  driving  past  with 
Lucy  Snow,  a  young  farmer's  girl  of  seventeen, 
with  very  round  pink  cheeks,  who  was  invariably 
singing  when  you  met  her  on  the  Bush  Hill  Road. 
Alec  ran  out  from  his  shop  and  waved  to  them,  and 
watched  them  disappear  down  the  street — a  girl 
just  entering  on  life,  a  woman  about  to  leave  it. 
He  had  a  warm  spot  in  his  heart  for  Lucy  Snow. 

The  winter  passed  without  his  seeing  very  much  of 
Aunt  Sally  Jane.  He  was  away  on  lecture  tours  a 
considerable  part  of  the  time  and  busy  with  work 
while  at  home.  But  he  found  occasion  to  drop  in 
on  her  now  and  then,  bringing  her  little  gifts  of 
better  tea  and  coffee  than  she  could  have  purchased 
for  herself,  and  at  Christmas  tune  presenting  her 
with  a  pretty  gray  Angora  wool  sweater  jacket, 
which  Aunt  Sally  Jane  immediately  donned  and 
admired  like  a  child. 

Lucy  Snow  was  there  at  the  time.  "I  guess 
you  ain't  got  nothin'  so  fine  ez  this!"  said  the  old 
lady  to  her.  "But  you  ain't  got  no  young  feller 
like  Alec  Farnum  comin'  'round  ter  see  yer.  I  tell 
you,  it  pays  ter  be  attractive  ter  the  young  men!" 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  131 

Aunt  Sally  Jane  laughed,  and  paraded  feebly  up 
and  down  the  kitchen.  She  was  growing  percep- 
tibly feebler,  Alec  thought,  and  he  called  Lucy  out- 
side with  him. 

"Don't  you  think  she  should  have  somebody  with 
her?"  he  asked.  "I'll  gladly  pay  for  a  companion 
if  it  could  be  arranged  without  her  knowing  it.  It 
isn't  right  for  an  old  lady  like  that  to  be  all  alone 
in  a  house,  without  even  a  telephone." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Lucy.  "It  worries  me,  too. 
But  I  don't  believe  you  could  induce  her  to  have 
anybody.  She  won't  admit  she  needs  it.  I  come 
as  often  as  I  can.  You  see,  it's  only  a  little  way 
over  from  our  house  by  the  short  cut.  I've  made 
her  a  red  flag  to  hang  out  of  the  window  for  a  signal 
if  she's  sick  or  anything." 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Lucy,"  said  the  Bird  House 
Man.  "There'll  be  some  treasures  laid  up  for  you 
in  Heaven !  Well,  you  let  me  know  if  anything  does 
happen,  and  if  there's  any  need  for  a  nurse  or  a 
doctor." 

Lucy  promised,  and  Alec  went  his  way. 

It  was  in  early  April  that  his  telephone  rang  and 
the  startled,  tearful  voice  of  Lucy  Snow  told  him 
to  come  at  once  to  Aunt  Sally  Jane's.  He  had  been 
away  the  greater  part  of  March,  and  so  busy  start- 
ing his  hotbeds  on  his  return  that  he  had  not  even 


132  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

thought  to  ask  about  her.  Now  he  set  off  at  once 
for  the  old  gray  house  on  the  hill.  It  was  nearly 
two  miles  up  there,  but  he  made  it  in  twenty  minutes. 
As  he  drew  near,  he  saw  Dr.  Tommy  Trask's  little 
runabout  standing  in  the  yard.  He  entered  with- 
out knocking.  Lucy  was  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
weeping  softly.  She  looked  up  as  Alec  entered, 
met  the  inquiry  hi  his  eyes,  and  nodded. 

"Dead,"  she  said.  "Mother's  in  there  with  the 
doctor.  She  just  came  out  and  told  me.  When  I 
got  here  this  morning  she  wasn't  up.  I  ran  into 
her  room.  She  just  lay  on  the  bed  and  didn't  speak. 
But  she  knew  me.  She — she  kissed  my  hand!" 

Lucy  wept  again,  softly,  and  Alec  went  across  the 
kitchen  and  into  the  front  room  of  the  house  which 
Aunt  Sally  Jane  had  used  for  a  chamber.  It  was  a 
poor,  meagre  room,  but  scrupulously  neat.  On  an 
old  yellow  wooden  bed,  under  a  patchwork  quilt, 
her  eyelids  folded  down  as  if  in  sleep,  lay  Aunt  Sally 
Jane.  Mrs.  Snow,  a  buxom,  pink-cheeked,  motherly 
female,  was  combing  back  her  wisps  of  white  hair. 
The  face  looked  very  peaceful. 

Alec  paused  in  the  doorway,  regarding  the  scene. 

"Hello,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  low  voice.  "The 
last  of  the  old  order,  Uncle  Alec!  She  died  ten 
minutes  ago,  without  any  pain.  The  works  just 
ran  down.  Your  name  was  on  her  lips  at  the  end. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  133 

I  think  she  was  trying  to  say  something  about  your 
not  forgetting  a  promise.  But  I  couldn't  be  sure. 
She  was  already  crossing  the  border." 

"How  sweet  she  looks,  the  dear  old  thing,"  said 
Mrs.  Snow.  "Now  somebody  must  notify  those  no 
good  nephews  of  hers  in  Brooklyn." 

Alec  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  Lucy  was  ex- 
cited. "Look,"  she  said,  "what  I  just  found — 
put  into  an  old  cake  box  in  the  butt'ry!" 

She  handed  Alec  a  piece  of  paper.  It  was  care- 
fully dated  the  day  before,  and  was  headed,  in  a 
trembling  hand,  "My  last  will  and  testament." 
Alec  read  it: 

"One: —  To  my"  nephews  and  nieces,  John, 
Thomas,  and  Abigail  Flint,  and  Alice  Flint  Pratt, 
I  give  and  bequeath  this  house  and " 

Then  the  writing  ceased  abruptly. 

"She — she  started  to  make  her  will  last  night," 
said  Lucy.  "Do  you  suppose  she  got  too  sick  to 
finish?  Oh,  why  didn't  I  come  back  here  after 
supper!  I  was  going  to,  but — but " 

"But  what?"  asked  Alec,  still  staring  at  the  piece 
of  paper — a  curious  paper,  one  of  those  old  sheets 
ruled  with  blue  lines,  with  the  dome  of  the  capitol 
embossed  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner.  He  was 
thinking  of  Aunt  Sally  Jane's  prophetic  words  about 
the  old  man  with  the  scythe. 


134  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Lucy  coloured  and  looked  at  her  feet.  "Well, 
Tom  Sawyer  wanted  me  to  go  for  a  ride,"  she  stam- 
mered. 

"Did  Aunt  Sally  Jane  know  that?"  asked  Alec 
quickly. 

"Yes.    I  told  her." 

"Did  she  like  him?" 

"I — I  think  so,"  Lucy  answered,  blushing  again. 

"H'm,"  said  he.  "Poor  Aunt  Sally  Jane!  She 
had  a  superstition  that  the  reaper  would  come  the 
night  she  made  her  will.  A  queer  coincidence! 
And  she  couldn't  finish  it  after  all.  She  couldn't 
defy  her  premonition." 

When  he  was  unobserved,  Alec  went  into  the  shed 
and  looked  into  the  milk  can.  The  bond  was  still 
there.  He  put  it  back  hastily. 

Three  days  later  one  of  Aunt  Sally  Jane's  nephews 
and  her  married  niece  and  the  husband  arrived  for 
the  funeral.  They  looked  oddly  out  of  place  in  the 
old  eighteenth-century  house,  which  otherwise  was 
filled  with  farmer  folk  from  the  Bush  Hill  district, 
Lucy  sitting  close  to  Tom  Sawyer,  her  eyes  swollen 
with  weeping.  The  relatives  wore  rather  exagger- 
atedly fashionable  "store  clothes,"  as  Aunt  Sally 
Jane  would  have  called  them.  They  seemed  least 
of  any  people  in  the  room  to  belong  there.  Alec 
resented  their  presence.  He  had  taken  a  violent 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  135 

dislike  to  them.  He  disliked  them  still  more  after 
the  body  had  been  followed  to  the  grave,  and  they 
returned  with  him  to  the  old  house,  where  he  and  the 
village  lawyer  whom  he  had  called  in  delivered  to 
them  the  unfinished  will  of  their  aunt,  which  was,  of 
course,  of  no  legal  value,  but  showed  at  least  that 
her  intention  evidently  was  for  them  to  inherit  the 
farm,  something  they  would  now  do  automatically. 

"What's  it  worth?"  asked  the  nephew-in-law. 
"Of  course,  this  old  shack  isn't  worth  anything. 
We  might  remodel  it,  Alice,  and  make  a  summer 
place." 

"Remodel  it!  Tear  it  down,  you  mean.  I  guess 
it  would  fall  down  anyhow  if  you  started  to  remodel 
it." 

"Well,  don't  you  begin  to  remodel  too  soon!" 
cried  the  nephew  to  his  sister.  "You'll  please  re- 
member that  I  and  Tom  and  Abigail  have  a  share  in 
this,  too!  Do  you  want  to  buy  out  our  share?" 

"See  here,"  Alice  exclaimed  suddenly.  "Didn't 
Aunt  Sally  sell  part  of  the  farm  once?  Seems  as  if 
she  wrote  about  it  to  father  before  he  died.  Where's 
the  money  she  got  for  that?" 

"I  presume  she  employed  some  of  it  to  live  on," 
said  Alec  Farnum,  as  quietly  as  he  could.  "I  would 
suggest,  however,  that  you  make  the  proper  legal 
arrangements  at  once  for  handling  the  estate,  and 


136  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

institute  a  search  of  the  house  for  bank  books  and 
other  buried  treasure." 

"A  very  sensible  idea,"  said  the  nephew,  "and  the 
sooner  the  better.  I've  got  to  get  back  to  little 
old  New  York." 

Alec  went  out  in  the  yard  presently,  to  escape  their 
presence,  and  found  Lucy  and  Tom  sitting  in  the 
orchard. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Alec,"  she  cried,  running  to  him,  "I've 
been  waiting  to  see  you.  You  know  that  lovely 
sweater  coat  you  gave  Aunt  Sally  Jane?  She  said 
she  wanted  me  to  have  it.  She  made  me  promise 
I'd  wear  it  after  she  was  gone.  She  loved  it  so,  I 
think  because  you  gave  it  to  her.  I — I  just  can't 
bear  to  think  of — of  that  Pratt  woman  having 
it!" 

"Neither  can  I,  Lucy,"  the  Bird  House  Man  re- 
plied. "But  it  belongs  by  law  to  the  Pratt  woman, 
nonetheless.  Do  you  know  where  it  is?" 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "It's  in  her  chamber,  in  the 
top  drawer  of  the  bureau." 

"Go  in  the  front  door,  on  tiptoe "  Alec  began. 

"No!"  he  interrupted  himself  gruffly.  "That  won't 
do  at  all.  I'll  explain  the  circumstances  to  the  Pratt 
woman,  and  leave  it  to  her  decency.  She  must  have 
some.  I've  always  maintained  that  everybody  has, 
at  any  rate.  Besides,  I  don't  believe  the  coat  is 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  137 

bright  coloured  enough  for  her.  She  looks  more  like 
the  strawberry  pink  kind  the  summer  girls  wear." 

Tom  grinned  at  this.  "Gee,  Lucy  don't  need  no 
bright  clo'es  ter  make  her  look  young!"  he  said,  while 
Lucy  blushed. 

Alec  looked  at  the  pair  affectionately.  They  were 
so  young,  so  healthy,  so  simple! 

"Tom,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "do  you  love  Lucy?" 

The  young  man  turned  fiery  red,  stammered,  and 
replied,  "Y — yes,  sir!"  with  surprising  vehemence. 

"And  you,  Lucy?" 

Lucy  answered  by  taking  Tom's  big  hand  and 
twining  her  fingers  through  his. 

"Good,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man.  "That 
would  have  pleased  Aunt  Sally  Jane." 

He  strode  back  through  the  orchard,  pulling  at  his 
beard  as  he  went,  a  frown  between  his  eyes.  Outside 
the  shed  he  paused,  and  the  frown  deepened. 

"To  whom  is  my  duty?"  he  said  to  himself,  the 
words  actually  forming  in  his  brain.  "Pshaw,  here 
I  am  using  that  abominable  word  duty  !  By  all 
the  laws  of  the  land  the  bond  belongs  to  those  atro- 
cious heirs;  by  all  the  laws  of  right  and  justice  it 
belongs  to  Lucy  Snow.  Am  I  to  be  the  instrument 
of  the  laws  of  the  land,  or  the  laws  of — of  the  Al- 
mighty?" 

He  smiled  a  little  wryly  at  his  predicament,  and 


138  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

put  one  foot  undecidedly  on  the  step  of  the  inner 
shed. 

Aunt  Sally  Jane's  own  words  came  back  to  him, 
came  back  with  the  fond  memory  of  her  quaint 
figure,  her  yellowed,  shrewd  face,  her  pathos  of 
loneliness.  "Remember,  thet  bond's  fer  Lucy  Snow. 
Ef  she  don't  git  it,  I'll  come  back  and  put  a  curse  on 
every  bird's  nest  in  your  garden,  Alec  Farnum,  ez 
sure  ez  God  made  little  apples!" 

Do  the  souls  of  the  dead  come  back?  Would  the 
soul  of  that  little  old  woman  who  had  known  but 
few  to  love  or  to  love  her,  but  who  had  loved  those 
few  devotedly,  and  Lucy  most  of  all,  come  back  to 
this  abode  and  know  that  he,  Alec  Farnum,  whom 
she  had  trusted,  had  out  of  respect  for  a  law  in  which 
there  was  no  justice  been  faithless  to  her  trust? 
Would  she,  who  had  known  so  little  of  this  world's 
store  of  happiness,  be  unhappy  hereafter?  Of  course, 
she  should  have  made  a  will;  of  course,  he  had  told 
her  so.  The  premonition  was  silly,  her  death  a 
coincidence.  Perhaps — who  could  say?  Admit  all 
that,  but  she  was  a  superstitious  old  lady,  of  a  naive, 
bygone  generation,  and  her  premonitions  were  also 
her  reality.  The  out  tanding  fact  was  that  she 
passionately  desired  the  bond  to  go  to  Lucy  Snow, 
and  she  expected  Alec  to  see  that  it  went  to  Lucy 
Snow.  The  law  took  no  cognizance  of  wishes  now 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  139 

that  she  was  dead,  and  the  Pratt  woman  would  take 
no  cognizance  of  wishes,  either,  where  one  thou- 
sand dollars  was  concerned:  he  knew  that  instinc- 
tively. 

Was  the  soul  of  that  bent  little  old  figure  whom  he 
had  discovered  burying  her  bond,  like  a  jackdaw, 
under  the  apple  trees,  whom  he  had  but  just  seen 
lying  on  her  ancient  bed  with  the  peace  of  death  on 
her  wizened  face,  watching  him  now,  made  miser- 
able by  his  failure,  mutely  miserable  without  power 
to  protest  across  the  gulf? 

In  this  so  busy  world  Alec  Farnum  had  thought 
but  little  about  another.  The  rector  said  he  had 
no  religion — which  is  often  said  of  those  who  do  not 
care  to  be  bored  on  Sunday  morning.  But  at  this 
moment,  with  one  foot  on  the  step  to  the  inner  shed, 
one  foot  in  the  chips  from  the  kindling  pile,  the  next 
world  was  very  real  to  Alec.  He  looked  into  the 
dimness  in  front  of  him  with  eyes  that  peered  across 
the  border,  and  he  seemed  to  wait  the  accusation  of 
Aunt  Sally  Jane's  disembodied  voice. 

Instead,  he  heard  from  behind  the  closed  door  to 
the  kitchen  the  voice  of  her  niece. 

"There  ain't  been  an  improvement  made  in  this 
awful  old  shack  for  a  hundred  years,"  she  was  say- 
ing. "It's  funny  to  think  of  our  folks  living  like 
this.  My,  we  might  have  been  born  here,  if  pa 


140  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

hadn't  gone  to  Brooklyn  when  he  was  young !  We've 
come  some  way  in  two  generations!" 

The  frown  vanished  from  Alec's  brow.  "The 
law  be  damned!"  he  muttered. 

Then  he  stole  on  tiptoe  into  the  next  shed,  took 
down  the  milk  can  with  the  utmost  care,  keeping  one 
eye  on  the  kitchen  door,  slipped  the  bond  hastily 
into  his  inner  pocket,  hung  the  can  up  again,  buttoned 
his  coat,  and  returned,  still  on  tiptoe,  to  the  wood- 
shed. 

There  he  paused,  drew  a  long  breath,  wiped  his 
brow,  and  then  walked  noisily  toward  the  kitchen, 
opened  the  door,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   WILD   DUCK 

"OH,  UNCLE  ALEC,  did  you  know  that  Tom 
Eames  was  back?"  cried  Ruth  Eliot,  running  into 
the  Bird  House  Man's  shop  one  summer  morning. 

"No!"  cried  the  Bird  House  Man.  "When  did 
he  arrive,  and  where's  he  been?" 

"Last  night.  I  met  him  in  front  of  the  post- 
office,  smoking  a  cigar  about  six  feet  long.  He's 
thin  and  burned  brown,  and  has  a  funny  moustache, 
and  says  he's  been  in  China." 

"  Then  he  probably  has,"  Alec  smiled.  "  Tom  was 
an  honest  boy." 

"He  may  have  been  honest,  but  he  wasn't  reli- 
able," said  Ruth.  "He's  the  kind  of  man  who — 
who  takes  what  he  wants  for  his  own  pleasure  or 
convenience,  and  then  departs  without  any  sense  of 
obligation." 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  about  Tom  Eames?" 
laughed  Alec.  "It  must  have  been  five  years  ago 
that  he  went  away,  and  you  weren't  out  of  pinafores 
then." 

"I  was  eighteen,  you  old  silly,  and  I  have  a  wo- 

141 


142  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

man's  intuition!  Besides,  I  know  Hazel  Ban- 
croft." 

"What  on  earth  has  Hazel  Bancroft  got  to  do 
with  it?"  Alec  Farnum  asked. 

"She  has  a  good  deal,"  Ruth  answered  soberly. 
"She  was  eighteen,  too,  when  he  went  away.  I  some- 
times think  a  girl  of  eighteen  is  older  than  a  boy  of 
twenty-one." 

"You  mean  she  was  in  love  with  him?" 

"I  mean  he  made  her  be  in  love  with  him — he 
liked  having  a  pretty  girl  in  love  with  him,"  said 
Ruth. 

"Most  men  do,"  Alec  smiled. 

"But  most  men  expect  to  do  a  little  loving  in 
return,"  Ruth  replied. 

"H'm — I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man. 

"Yes  you  are — don't  try  to  be  cynical!  Tom 
just  went  away  when  he  felt  like  it,  and  left  Hazel 
flat." 

"I  can't  regard  being  left  flat  at  eighteen  as  an 
unmitigated  tragedy,"  Alec  responded.  "I  can 
even  conceive  of  it  as  a  blessing.  Besides,  Hazel 
seems  to  have  done  pretty  well  since.  I  don't 
notice  her  sitting  out  many  dances.  For  dancing, 
indeed,  she  seems  to  be  a  regular  grasshopper. 
Dances  pretty  well,  too!  By  the  way,  we  must  re- 
peat that  little  performance  we  gave  in  my  garden 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  143 

last  year,  with  Hazel  doing  a  butterfly  dance  in 
the  costume  your  Rob  designed  for  her,  and  you 
hidden  out  behind  the  syringa,  singing.  Now 
Tommy  Trask  has  rescued  Margaret  Weir,  she  can 
fiddle  for  us.  That's  the  final  touch  we  need." 

But  Ruth  was  not  to  be  put  off.  "Sometimes 
you  are  dreadfully  dense,  Uncle  Alec,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  believe  you  realize  at  all  the  sort  of  a  girl 
Hazel  is.  She's  the  kind  that  never  really  forgets. 
Being  treated  that  way — having  her  heart  wrenched 
— would  just  change  her  whole  life,  down  deep. 
I — I  don't  know  what's  going  to  happen  now  Tom 
Eames  has  come  back." 

"Perhaps  we'll  have  a  performance  of  *  All's  Well 
That  Ends  Well/  instead  of  the  dance,"  said  the 
Bird  House  Man. 

Ruth  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  trust  Tom,"  she 
said. 

"You  have  a  suspicious  nature — get  out  of  my 
shop!"  the  man  laughed.  But  when  she  had  gone, 
he  idled,  looking  thoughtfully  out  across  the  masses 
of  colour  in  his  garden. 

It  was  not  long  after  that  Tom  Eames  himself 
appeared — a  young  man  of  twenty-six,  with  a  lean, 
bronzed  face  (it  was  more  than  mere  tan),  and  a 
smiling,  easy  manner  not  without  a  certain  sugges- 
tion of  swagger.  He  came  into  the  shop  with  this 


144  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

swagger  rather  accentuated.  Evidently  he  regarded 
his  return  as  of  considerable  importance.  Alec 
looked  up  from  his  work,  put  out  his  hand,  shook 
Tom's,  and  then  resumed  his  occupation. 

"Nice  morning,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  for  the  sake 
of  the  team.  Last  week  it  rained  for  the  game  with 
Boxford."  * 

Tom  Eames  was  undoubtedly  taken  aback  by 
this  greeting.  "Y-yes,"  he  stammered.  "Who's 
on  the  team  now?" 

"Never  mind  the  team  now!"  Alec  laughed. 
"Tell  me  where  you've  been  these  five  years — 
only  don't  try  to  impress  me,  because  I've  been 
around  the  world  myself.  I've  heard  the  clarinos 
sing  in  the  Mexican  ranges,  and  the  nightingales  by 
the  Danube." 

"You've  not  changed  much,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
sheepish  grin. 

"I'm  too  old  to  change.  What  have  you  learned 
in  your  travels?" 

"I've  been  to  China,"  said  Tom.  "After  dad 
died,  and  left  me  enough  to  see  the  world  with,  I 
just  lit  out,  as  you  know.  I  went  through  Europe 
and  the  Suez  Canal,  and  India,  and  got  to  Canton 
before  I'd  used  up  my  pile.  It  got  pretty  low  there, 
though,  and  I  joined  up  with  a  plant  expedition  into 
far  western  China.  Was  two  years  with  that — it 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  145 

was  heaps  of  fun,  and  hard  work,  too.  Then  I  got 
on  a  newspaper  at  Manila,  and  worked  there  six 
months  or  more,  and  then  I  went  to  Japan  for 
a  bit,  with  an  importing  firm.  Then  I  got  homesick 
and  headed  for  'Frisco,  and  got  stuck  at  Honolulu 
for  nearly  a  year,  working  on  a  pineapple  plantation, 
for  a  man  I  met  on  the  steamer.  Learned  a  lot 
about  pineapples  and  saved  up  a  bit  of  money,  and 
here  I  am!" 

"Going  to  stay?"  Alec  asked  impassively. 

"Sure.  I'm  tired  of  kicking  around  the  world. 
I'm  twenty-six  now — getting  old!  Guess  I've  seen 
my  share.  I'm  going  to  look  around  for  the  right 
farm,  buy  it  in,  and  start  a  nursery — going  to  breed 
native  wild  flowers  and  shrubs  for  the  market.  I've 
decided  that  our  own  native  flowers  are  pretty  good. 
'Course,  I'll  handle  a  few  China  plants,  to  use  my 
advertising  drag,  seeing  as  how  I've  been  to  China 
myself." 

"That's  a  fine  idea,  Tom!"  cried  Alec.  "You 
didn't  find  anything  in  China  lovelier  than  a  fringed 
gentian,  did  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  youth.  "No,  I  didn't.  Well,  I 
must  be  on  my  way.  When  I  get  the  farm,  I  can 
rely  on  your  help,  can't  I?  You'll  be  about  the 
only  person  in  this  old  berg  who  won't  think  I've 
gone  dippy." 


146  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"To  the  limit,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man. 

Alec  watched  him  go  whistling  out,  and  on  the 
street  resume  his  swagger  as  he  met  a  passerby. 

"Travel  is  one  way  of  not  getting  an  education," 
the  Bird  House  Man  muttered  to  himself. 

In  the  next  few  days  the  town  was  full  of  rumours 
of  Tom  Eames'  search  for  a  farm.  He  was  boarding 
at  Carrie  Ashton's,  and  received  callers  every  day, 
to  consider  their  offers.  It  was  reported  that  he 
had  come  back  home  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
which  gradually  swelled  to  half  a  million.  His 
swagger  grew  in  direct  proportion  to  this  increase  in 
the  size  of  his  fortune.  But,  after  a  week  or  more 
he  hadn't  bought  a  farm.  He  said  he  couldn't  find 
one  yet  which  answered  his  needs. 

But  he  had  begun  to  be  seen  again  with  Hazel 
Bancroft.  He  took  her  to  a  dance,  where  she  taught 
him  the  new  steps  which  had  come  in  since  his  de- 
parture. Ruth  reported  to  the  Bird  House  Man  that 
he  and  Hazel  danced  twelve  out  of  fourteen  dances 
together,  which  in  Bentford  was  always  considered  a 
serious  sign.  He  went  often  to  her  house.  Gradu- 
ally he  began  to  stay  there  for  most  of  his  dinners. 
After  dinner  he  and  Hazel  walked  out  along  the 
river  bank  or  drifted  down  under  the  willows  in  a 
canoe.  The  other  young  men  who  had  been  de- 
voted to  Hazel  dropped  away.  Southmead  ac- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  147 

knowledged  the  rights  of  priority  in  such  matters. 
It  was  a  recognized  thing  that  Tom  Eames  had 
come  back  to  his  old  home — and  his  old  sweetheart. 

"If  I  were  Hazel,  I  wouldn't  have  taken  him  back 
so  easily,"  said  Ruth. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would,"  Alec  smiled.  "He  was 
only  a  boy,  after  all,  when  he  went  away  to  see  the 
world.  He's  come  back  a  man." 

"He's  come  back  just  what  he  went  away — only 
more  so!"  Ruth  retorted.  "Rob  thinks  so,  too." 

"Well,  of  course,  if  Rob  thinks  so,  that  settles  it." 

"Why  doesn't  he  give  her  a  ring,  and  let  her  an- 
nounce their  engagement,  if  he's  grown  up?  And 
why  doesn't  he  really  start  that  nursery  he's  talking 
about?" 

The  Bird  House  Man  put  up  his  hands.  "Don't 
ask  me ! "  he  cried.  "  You  talk  as  if  I  were  to  blame." 

"Oh,  nobody's  to  blame,  I  suppose,"  Ruth  an- 
swered. "But  this  time  he'll  break  Hazel's  heart." 

It  wasn't  long  after  when  Tom  Eames  again  ap- 
peared at  the  Bird  House,  this  time  rather  late  in  the 
evening.  Alec  Farnum  was  smoking  a  bedtime 
pipe.  Rob  Eliot  and  Ruth  had  just  gone.  They 
had  been  singing  and  playing  for  him,  and  Rob,  shy 
as  a  schoolboy,  had  whispered  a  secret  in  his  ear. 
He  had  kissed  Ruth  good-night,  and  chuckled  at 
her  blushes  when  she  guessed  his  reason,  and  now  he 


148  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

was  smoking  happily,  thinking  of  his  song  sparrow, 
of  the  girl  who  was  as  dear  to  him  as  the  daughter  he 
had  never  had. 

Tom's  knock  aroused  him. 

He  looked  at  his  caller  sharply,  as  he  made  him 
welcome. 

"It's  rather  late  to  be  dropping  in,  but  I  saw  a 
light  in  your  window,"  said  Tom  apologetically. 

"Late?  Don't  you  remember  that  I'm  an  owl? 
Well,  Tom,  have  you  found  the  right  farm  yet?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "That's  what 
I've  come  to  talk  to  you  about,"  he  answered.  "  You 
can  understand,  if  anybody  in  this  old  berg  can.  I 
don't  want  to  buy  a  farm  any  more.  That's  the 
flat  truth." 

Alec  looked  at  him  sharply  again.  "What  do 
you  want  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  go  back  into  China." 

The  older  man  took  the  stem  out  of  his  pipe  and 
blew  it  clean  before  he  answered.  "You  mean  to 
say  that  you  have  an  attack  of  wanderlust,  after 
you've  been  home  only  a  month,  eh?" 

"That's  about  it,  I  guess." 

"Why  China?" 

"I  couldn't  explain  that  to  anybody  who'd  not 
been  into  the  interior — but  once  you've  been  there, 
it  calls  you.  The  miles  and  miles  of  country  with- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  149 

out  a  town  and  without  a  forest — just  little  house 
and  garden  after  little  house  and  garden!  The 
yellow  people!  The  great  yellow  rivers!  The  old- 
ness  of  it!  And  then,  finally,  the  white  mountains 
on  the  far  horizon,  and  the  wildness  where  they  say 
all  history  began,  and  the  dirty  monks  and — and — 
oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  but  I  dream  of  it,  and  it  kind  of 
says,  'Come!'" 

Alec  slowly  nodded  his  head. 

"Something  like  that  calls  to  the  wild  duck  on  a 
day  in  autumn,  I  suppose,"  he  said.  "Why  did  you 
come  home  at  all?" 

"Well,  gee,  a  fellow  gets  homesick!  I  wanted  to 
see  the  folks — white  folks." 

"And  have  them  see  you,  eh?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Tom. 

"Well,  you  rather  wanted  us  back  here  to  know 
you'd  been  globe-trotting,  didn't  you?" 

Tom  Eames  was  not  angry.  He  laughed.  "I'm 
afraid  you're  a  bit  right,"  he  answered.  "A  chap 
does  want  his  home  folks  to  know  what  he's  up 
to." 

"I  don't  believe  the  wild  duck  does  that,"  said 
Alec  shortly.  "  What  about  Hazel?  " 

Tom  grew  grave.  "That's  what  I  really  want  to 
ask  you  about,"  said  he.  "There's  nobody  else 
I  can  ask,  and  besides,  Hazel  sets  great  store  by  you. 


150  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

I  know  you  think  I'm  a  bit  of  a  rotter,  and  Ruth — 
what's  her  name  now,  Eliot? — thinks  I'm  more'n 
that.  But,  honest  to  God,  Mr.  Farnum,  I'm  fond 
of  Hazel,  awful  fond — I  guess  as  fond  as  I  can  be  of 
anybody.  I  want  to  do  what's  right  by  her." 

"Why  not  marry  her  then,  and  take  her  to  China 
with  you?" 

"You  wouldn't  say  that  if  you  knew  interior 
China.  Besides,  it  ain't  China  alone — it's  this 
cursed  longing  in  me  to  knock  around  the  world. 
I  got  some  money  now — a  couple  of  thousand 
dollars.  That  ain't  going  to  last  long.  I  may  get 
a  good  job  when  it's  gone.  I  may  have  to  punch 
steers  hi  Argentine  or  heave  tea  bales  with  a  gang  of 
coolies,  'somewhere  east  of  Suez.'  Can't  ask  a 
woman  to  share  that,  you  know." 

"If  Hazel  loves  you " 

"Oh,  she  loves  me  all  right!"  said  Tom. 

The  Bird  House  Man  smothered  an  instinctive 
exclamation  of  anger,  and  continued:  "If  Hazel  loves 
you,  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  perhaps  you  owe  it 
to  her  happiness  to  settle  down  here,  or  at  least  in 
some  civilized  land  where  you  can  take  her  and  sup- 
port her?" 

"That's  just  it!"  Tom  cried.  "Sure  it's  occurred 
to  me.  I  tell  you  I'm  not  such  a  rotter  as  you  all 
think.  I  want  to  be  on  the  square  with  Hazel. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  151 

But  I've  been  trying  for  two  weeks  to  make  myself 
ask  her  to  set  a  day,  and  always,  before  I  can  do  it, 
up  hops  a  vision  of  China,  or  I  hear  a  little  geisha 
that  I — I  knew  once,  singing  in  her  funny  voice, 
and  this  old  berg  seems  all  of  a  sudden  tame,  and 
Hazel  looks — oh,  how  can  I  explain  it? — sort  of 
homely,  no,  not  homely,  of  course — sort  of  unin- 
teresting, and — and  I  just  can't  do  it.  If  I  do  ask 
her,  what's  going  to  prevent  my  feeling  this  way  after- 
ward? Won't  I  make  her  more  unhappy  later? 
Gee,  what  shall  I  do?  " 

"So  you've  come  here  to  get  me  to  make  up  your 
mind  for  you,  eh?"  snorted  Alec  Farnum.  "Well, 
Hazel  is  about  seven  thousand  times  too  good  for 
you,  that's  my  belief.  You  can't  help  what  you  are, 
though.  You're  a  wild  duck  with  an  enlarged  ego. 
You  are  planning  already  to  fly  away.  Have  you 
booked  yet?" 

"I — I  sort  of  half  reserved  passage  on  a  Pacific 
mail  next  month,  from  Vancouver,"  Tom  admitted, 
caught  off  his  guard. 

"Oh,  you  did?  Well,  use  it,  by  all  means.  I  guess 
we  can  mend  Hazel's  heart  better  now  than  later." 

"I— I  hate  to  do  it,"  said  Tom.  "I  hate  to  think 
of  Hazel  with  any  other  man." 

Alec  Farnum  rose.  "Good-night,"  he  said,  so 
brusquely  that  the  youth  started.  "Before  you  go, 


152  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

leave  me  the  name  of  your  steamer,  though.  I  wish 
to  know  it." 

His  manner  precluded  further  speech,  and  Tom 
Eames  went  out,  rather  abashed  and  hastily. 

The  next  day  he  left  town,  to  all  but  Alec  as  un- 
expectedly as  he  had  come.  It  was  Kib  Turner, 
driver  of  the  local  "deepot  carriage,"  who  told  the 
Bird  House  Man.  Alec  was  in  front  of  his  shop, 
edging  the  path  to  the  curb,  when  Kib  drove  by. 

"Took  that  young  feller  Tom  Eames  to  the 
deepot  this  mornin',"  he  said.  "Reckon  some  few 
farmers  who  was  lookin'  ter  sting  him  is  kinder 
smartin'  themselves  neow.  I  arst  him  whar  he  was 
goin',  an'  he  allowed  he  was  migratin'  like  a  wild 
duck.  I  told  him  ter  look  out  fer  decoys.  I  ain't 
never  travelled  much  myself,  not  ez  you'd  really 
say,  though  I  bin  ter  Washington.  I  calc'late  it 
makes  yer  kind  o'  restless." 

"Sometimes,"  Alec  answered,  so  briefly  and  al- 
most curtly  that  the  old  fellow  on  the  battered  hack 
looked  surprised,  and  clucked  instinctively  to  his 
dejected  horse. 

That  evening  the  doorbell  of  the  Bird  House  was 
once  more  pulled,  and  Mrs.  Plumb  admitted  a  girl. 
Alec  rose  to  greet  her  without  a  word,  his  eyes 
searching  her  face  anxiously.  It  was  a  pretty  face, 
an  extraordinarily  pretty  face,  a  little  thin  and 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  153 

pointed,  and  set  on  an  equally  pretty  throat.  Her 
figure  was  youthful  and  slim,  and  she  carried  her- 
self with  unconscious  grace,  though  all  her  move- 
ments were  alert  and  rapid,  comporting  with  the 
vividness  of  her  dark-blue  eyes.  Those  eyes  were 
now  looking  into  Alec's  with  a  snap  of  challenge. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  took  hers.  "Sit  down, 
Hazel,"  he  said  gently,  leading  her  to  a  big  easy  chair. 

She  sat  down,  and  folded  one  trim  ankle  over  the 
other.  "So  you  sent  Tom  away!"  she  began  ab- 
ruptly. 

"Was  that  what  Tom  said?" 

"He  said  you  advised  him  to  go." 

"I  won't  deny  it,"  the  man  answered,  "though  I 
think  it's  only  fair  to  tell  you  that  he  had  already 
booked  his  passage  before  he  came  to  me.  Did  he 
tell  you  that?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"No,  he  wouldn't,"  Alec  said,  half  to  himself. 
"Hazel,  I  advised  him  to  go  because  if  it  wasn't 
now,  it  would  be  later,  because  he's  not  good  enough 
for  you " 

"Don't  you  think  I  might  be  permitted  to  be  the 
judge  of  that?"  she  said,  so  quietly  that  Alec  shot 
another  look  at  her  face. 

"Presumably  you  are,"  he  replied.  "But,  un- 
fortunately, my  judgment  also  was  asked,  and  I 


154  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

rendered  it.  I'd  rather  see  you  unhappy  and  free, 
than  unhappy  and  bound." 

"Unhappy!"  she  shot  the  word  out.  "Unhappy! 
I  suppose  everybody  thinks  I'm  at  home  now,  cry- 
ing my  eyes  out!  Well,  I'm  not,  and  I  never  shall 
be !  If  I  do  cry  my  eyes  out,  nobody  in  this  town  will 
ever  know  it!  Oh,  you  men!  If  you  feel  like  seeing 
the  world,  why,  you  just  go  see  it,  no  matter  who 
suffers!" 

"Not  all  of  us,  Hazel,"  said  Alec  Farnum  gently. 
"Not  all  of  us.  But  there  are  some  men  who  are 
born  wanderers,  who,  when  the  call  comes,  have  to 
rise  and  follow,  like  a  wild  duck  from  his  northern 
marshes.  It  is  better  to  let  them  go,  and  find  another 
mate  among  the " 

"Mate!  I  don't  want  any  mate!"  the  girl  broke 
out  passionately.  "I — I  cared  for  Tom  five  years 
ago,  more  than  I  ever  can  or  want  to  care  for  any- 
body again.  I — I  thought  he  had  come  back  to  me. 
I  took  him  back.  I  knew  what  he  was  as  well  as 
you  do.  I — I  hadn't  many  delusions  after  those 
five  years.  But  it  seemed  as  if  my  early  dream  was 
somehow  coming  true  after  all,  and — and " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  fidgeted  with  her  wisp 
of  a  handkerchief  in  her  fingers.  Alec  said  nothing. 
He  hoped  that  she  would  weep,  but  she  was  quite 
dry  eyed. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  155 

"Now  he's  gone,"  she  resumed,  "and  I'll  never 
take  him  back,  not  if  he  crawls  to  me  over  fields  of 
splintered  glass!  But  don't  you  think  I'm  going  to 
stay  here  and  look  pathetic  and  wait  for  some  'nice* 
man  to  heal  my  broken  heart!  I've  come  to  you  for 
a  little  advice,  too.  You  said  Tom  was  a  wild  duck, 
and  advised  him  to  fly  away.  Well,  what's  sauce 
for  the  drake  is  sauce  for  the  other  sex,  too.  Have 
you  got  any  reason  why  7  shouldn't  fly  away?  Just 
because  I  wear  petticoats,  can't  I  see  the  world  when 
I  want  to,  just  as  well  as  he?  Do  you  suppose  a 
girl  doesn't  hear  any  of  those  calls  you  talk  about?  " 

Her  eyes  were  challenging  him,  and  Alec  waited  a 
moment  before  he  responded. 

"I  can  think  of  several  reasons  why  you  shouldn't 
fly  away,"  he  said  presently,  "but  I'm  not  sure  that 
you  are  any  more  ready  to  listen  to  them  than  Tom 
was." 

"I'll  listen,"  she  said. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  you  do  wear  petticoats — 
metaphorically  speaking,  at  least;  I  can't  vouch  for 
the  present  styles.  What  is  easy  for  a  man  is  difficult 
and  dangerous  for  a  girl.  In  the  second  place,  you 
are  not  that  kind  of  a  person." 

"It's  little  you  know  what  kind  of  a  person  I 
am!"  she  retorted.  "I  didn't  know  myself  till 
to-day.  I'm  only  just  finding  out  now.  I  may  not 


156  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

'hear  the  East  a-callin','  as  he  was  always  quoting, 
but  I  do  hear  something  calling  which  bids  me  get 
out  of  Southmead.  I'm  not  going  to  wait  for  the 
world  to  come  to  my  door,  in  the  form  of  one  man 
who  talks  through  his  nose,  like  everybody  here. 
I'm  going  to  go  to  the  world,  and  see  it  all!  I'm 
going  to  leave  my  'broken  heart'  behind.  I'm  not 
going  to  take  any  heart  with  me.  I'm  sjoing  to  do  a 
little  wild  ducking!" 

"You're  not  going  to  do  anything  of  the  kind!" 
Alec  answered.  "You  are  going  to  stay  here  and 
go  about  your  business  as  usual,  and  think  of  your 
father  and  mother  and  sister." 

"My  business!  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  my 
business  is?  Waiting  for  a  man,  I  suppose,  and 
singing  in  the  Episcopal  choir,  and  helping  wash 
dishes!  Not  much!  The  choir  won't  be  any  worse 
if  I  leave  it — it  couldn't — and  father  can  afford  to 
hire  a  maid  if  I  go.  Besides,  you  don't  really  be- 
lieve that  a  child  owes  it  to  its  parents  to  sacrifice 
its  life  to  them,  now  do  you?  " 

"No,"  the  man  admitted,  "not  when  it  knows 
what  its  life  should  be,  and  doesn't  merely  chase  a 
whim." 

"Call  it  what  you  please,  it  says  'Come* — it's  my 
equivalent  for  China,"  she  retorted.  "I  demand  as 
my  right  an  equivalent  for  China!" 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  157 

"What  do  you  purpose  to  do?"  the  Bird  House 
Man  asked. 

"You've  told  me  I  can  dance,"  she  said.  "In 
fact,  you  and  Ruth  and  Mr.  Eliot  have  taught  me  to 
dance,  really.  Perhaps  I  shall  dance  my  way  to 
fame — who  knows?" 

"Oh,  child,  child,  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying!"  Alec  exclaimed. 

The  girl  rose,  and  looked  him  soberly  in  the  face. 
"Uncle  Alec,"  she  answered,  "I  know  exactly  what 
I  am  saying.  I've  never  been  far  out  of  this  village 
more  than  twice  in  my  life,  but  I'm  a  woman  now. 
I  know  exactly  what  I'm  saying." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  man  shook  his  head. 
"No,  you  can't!"  he  half  whispered.  "No,  no! 
you  wouldn't  leave  us  all,  this  way — me — it'll  be  my 
fault.  I'll— I'll  wire  Tom!" 

"If  you  dare!"  she  cried.  "I  never  want  to  lay 
eyes  on  him  again!" 

And  suddenly,  before  the  man  had  time  even  to 
put  out  his  arm,  she  reeled  against  him,  and  lay 
sobbing  on  his  bosom. 

He  let  her  sob  for  a  time,  stroking  her  pretty  hair 
like  a  father,  and  then,  when  she  was  quiet,  he 
searched  for  his  cap  to  take  her  home.  But  she 
refused  his  escort. 

"No!"  she  cried.     "I'm  not  going  to  be  escorted 


158  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

around  by  a  man,  just  because  it's  dark!  I  shall 
find  my  own  way  now — I  insist!" 

"As  you  like,"  he  answered.  "To-morrow  after- 
noon I'm  coming  to  take  you  for  a  buggy  ride, 
though." 

She  smiled  faintly  back  into  his  face,  but  without 
replying  ran  quickly  out  and  down  the  steps. 

"With  a  white  horse,  too,"  he  called  after  her. 

True  to  his  promise,  Alec  reached  her  house  the 
next  afternoon,  seated  in  a  buggy  pulled  by  a  white 
horse.  Her  mother  answered  the  bell.  Alec  saw 
at  once  that  she  was  greatly  perturbed. 

"Hazel — Hazel's  gone  to  New  York  on  a  little 
visit,"  she  said. 

"Come  out  on  the  porch,  Mary,"  said  the  Bird 
House  Man,  who  had  gone  to  school  with  Hazel's 
mother.  "Now,  tell  me  about  it.  She's  gone  away, 
has  she?  Did  she  leave  any  address?" 

The  woman  was  close  to  tears.  "No,"  she  an- 
swered. "That's  the  most  terrible  part  of  it  to 
me.  Her  father'll  forgive  her  in  time,  but  I  don't 
know  where  she  is!  She  said  she'd  write.  But  how 
do  I  know  what'll  happen  to  her  down  in  that  city?" 

"Hazel  will  look  out  for  herself,  never  fear.  Did 
she  have  any  money?" 

"She  got  two  hundred  dollars  of  her  own  out  of  the 
savings  bank  this  morning.  It's  money  her  grand- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  159 

father  left  to  her.  Her  father  wouldn't  give  her  any. 
She  wouldn't  tell  him  why  she  was  going  or  for  how 
long.  They  had  a  terrible  scene.  It's  all  that  Tom 
Eames'  doing.  I'd  like  to  lay  my  hands  on  him!" 

"Didn't  Hazel  explain  anything  to  you?" 

"Not  that  I  could  understand,"  the  mother  hah* 
sobbed.  "She  said  she  wouldn't  face  the  pity  of  this 
village — I  could  understand  that,  and  so  could  her 
father.  But  she  wouldn't  go  off  for  a  visit  to  her 
cousins'  in  Maiden.  They'd  have  had  her,  and  glad. 
She  said  she  was  going  to  see  the  world  herself,  and 
in  her  own  way,  and  she  talked  something  crazy- 
sounding  about  wild  ducks.  It  was  awful!" 

"I  think  /  understand,"  said  Alec.  "She  was  at 
my  house  last  night.  I  never  thought  she'd  really 
go  away,  though.  I'm  sure  she'll  write  to  you  soon. 
You  let  me  have  her  address  as  soon  as  you  get  it, 
and  I'll  go  right  down  to  New  York." 

The  man  went  home  and  walked  in  his  garden, 
back  and  forth  up  the  paths,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  pull  up  a  weed.  "I  could  go  after  her  now,"  he 
thought.  "Doubtless  I  could  find  her.  Will  any 
harm  come  to  her  if  I  don't?  Will  it  be  better  to 
let  her  have  a  fling  at  this  thing,  the  world,  and  find 
out  what  it  is?  Will  the  learning  hurt  her — or 
will  it  do  her  good?" 

It  was  a  problem  that  he  debated  long,  sure  that 


160  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

whichever  way  he  acted  he  would  be  sorry.  At 
last  he  made  up  his  mind.  "She  has  character," 
he  told  himself.  "Character,  and  two  hundred 
dollars.  With  those  two  assets  she  can  last  for  a 
while.  After  all,  she's  a  right  to  her  own  life,  with- 
out any  of  us  tagging  along  to  *save*  her!  If  she 
doesn't  find  out  for  herself,  nothing  will  ever  per- 
suade her.  It's  better  so." 

He  went  back  to  his  shop,  took  off  his  coat,  and 
set  to  work  at  the  bench. 

Mrs.  Bancroft  received  a  postal  from  Hazel  the 
following  day,  announcing  simply  her  safe  arrival  in 
New  York.  Almost  every  day  thereafter  messages 
came,  on  picture  postcards,  but  no  address.  The 
mother  brought  them  all  to  Alec.  They  comforted 
her  a  little,  but  she  wanted  to  write.  Her  grief  was 
pathetic.  "If  I  could  only  write  to  her  and  tell  her 
that  her  father  isn't  so  angry  now!"  she  said.  "I 
know  he'd  send  her  some  money  pretty  soon,  if  he 
only  knew  where  to  send  it,  and  ask  her  to  come 
home.  And  her  kitten — she  must  want  to  hear 
about  that!" 

"Hazel  doesn't  want  you  to  know,  because  she's 
afraid  you'll  follow  her,"  said  Alec.  "That's  nat- 
ural. She'll  send  you  an  address  as  soon  as  she 
finds  work;  you'll  see.  She  wants  to  be  settled  first, 
so  she'll  have  an  anchor  out  against  your  tugging." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  161 

Two  weeks  later  she  did  send  an  address,  as  the 
man  had  predicted,  announcing  that  she  was  settled 
there — "and  earning  my  living,"  she  added.  "Don't 
worry  about  me,  and  tell  Uncle  Alec  I  am  happy  and 
am  going  to  be  happier." 

Alec  took  this  address,  and  departed  for  New  York. 
He  knew  that  the  mother  would  have  no  peace  till 
he  had  done  so.  It  was  the  number  of  a  house  on  a 
cross  street  west  of  the  Avenue,  above  Times  Square, 
a  street  of  small  millinery  shops,  cleansers'  agencies, 
and  brownstone  dwellings  down  at  the  heel.  The 
man  knew  before  he  pushed  the  bell  what  sort  of 
an  establishment  he  had  reached.  He  was  not  sur- 
prised when  the  dirty  servant  told  him  Miss  Bancroft 
wasn't  at  home,  and  he'd  better  try  the  the-ayter. 

"Which  theatre?"  he  asked. 

The  servant  retired  and  bawled  a  question  into 
the  darkness  at  the  rear  of  the  hall. 

The  answer  came  audibly  back,  and  he  departed. 
He  waited  till  evening,  and  bought  a  seat,  not  too 
near  the  front.  The  play  was  a  musical  comedy  of 
the  conventional  type.  Hazel  was  not  on  the  stage 
at  the  start,  but  he  had  not  long  to  wait  for  a  glimpse 
of  her.  She  came  on  with  another  girl,  to  attend  the 
comedian  in  his  opening  song,  with  a  dance.  The 
two  girls  wore  black  and  white  Pierrette  bodices,  with 
skirts  that  did  not  reach  their  knees,  and  each  had 


162  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

on  one  white  and  one  black  stocking,  with  slippers 
reversed  in  shade.  Alec  Farnum  felt  an  instinctive 
hot  revulsion,  but  he  watched  the  dance,  and  had  to 
admit  to  himself  that  Hazel  danced  well.  So  the 
audience  thought,  for  the  two  girls  at  once  became 
favourites.  They  went  off  presently,  and  when  they 
next  appeared,  to  support  the  tenor  in  a  "military** 
number,  they  wore  white  silk  tights,  with  scarlet 
short  coats  covered  with  gold  cord  and  little  white 
and  gold  helmets.  He  took  one  look  at  Hazel,  her 
slender,  graceful  legs  revealed  to  her  very  hips,  one 
look  at  her  face  which  was  smiling  at  the  audience, 
and  went  hot  with  shame  and  anger.  His  impulse 
was  to  rush  down  the  aisle  and  snatch  her  away. 
He  heard  a  comment  from  a  man  in  the  seat  beside 
him,  and  clenched  his  fist.  The  two  girls  had  begun 
to  dance,  a  silly  sort  of  goose-step  affair.  The  audi- 
ence, a  blurred  sea  of  faces,  were  intent  on  the 
spectacle.  Alec  got  up  and  almost  ran  out  of  the 
theatre. 

Outside,  he  paced  up  and  down  in  the  glare  of 
Broadway.  "I'm  a  fool,"  he  told  himself,  "I'm 
an  old-fashioned  fool.  But  if  I  were  her  father, 
how  would  I  feel?  The  same  way — the  same  way! 
All  those  thoughts  beating  up  upon  her  from  the 
Yahoos  in  the  audience!  It  shan't  be!  It  can't 
be!" 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  163 

He  began  looking  for  a  telegraph  office,  and  sent  a 
long  message  to  Tom  Eames,  whose  ship  was  due  to 
sail  from  Vancouver  in  two  days.  Then  he  went  to 
his  hotel  and  wrote  to  Hazel's  mother.  Hazel,  he 
said,  had  a  good  engagement  dancing  in  a  first-class 
theatre.  He  had  not  yet  been  able  to  persuade  her 
to  return  home,  but  he  had  hopes.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  wait  a  little  in  patience.  They 
would  have  to,  anyway. 

He  took  his  own  advice,  too.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  see  her.  He  waited  for  a  message  from  Tom.  If 
the  youth  didn't  rise  to  the  occasion — well,  Alec 
didn't  know  what  he  should  do.  But  he  had  that 
much  faith  in  Tom.  It  might  be  the  thing  needed 
to  make  a  man  of  him,  Alec  thought.  It  might  be  a 
case  of  "All's  well  that  ends  well,"  after  all. 

Tom  wired  that  he  was  coming.  Five  days  later 
he  arrived.  His  conscience  had  been  working  on  the 
trip.  He  was  a  soberer  person  than  he  was  a  month 
before.  Alec  sent  a  message  to  the  girl's  boarding- 
house. 

"Tom  Eames  and  I  are  coming  to  take  you  home 
from  the  theatre  to-night,"  he  wrote.  "Tom  has 
something  he  wants  to  say  to  you,  and  you  must 
hear  it." 

Then  he  took  Tom  to  the  performance.  He 
watched  his  companion's  face  sharply  at  Hazel's 


164  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

first  entrance,  and  saw  it  go  white  and  then  red. 
When  she  again  came  on  in  the  white  tights,  Tom 
uttered  a  low,  inarticulate  gasp,  and  stared  first  at 
the  girl  and  then  at  the  faces  of  the  audience,  and 
then  back  at  the  girl.  He  sat  glumly  in  his  seat 
during  the  intermission,  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast, 
and  Alec  left  him  to  his  thoughts.  In  the  second 
act  Hazel  again  appeared,  but  this  time  in  a  totally 
different  costume — a  sort  of  Watteau  shepherdess 
affair,  which  floated  out  above  her  pretty  feet  and 
ankles  crossed  with  black  ribbons,  and  she  and  her 
partner  did  a  dance  by  themselves  which,  in  this 
garish  show,  was  like  a  sudden  thrush  song  amid  a 
babel  of  crows.  The  audience  responded  to  it,  as 
audiences  always  will  respond  to  effective  art,  es- 
pecially to  Hazel's  share,  for  she  could  unconsciously 
be  felt  as  the  favourite.  There  was  the  unmistak- 
able air  of  freshness  and  unsophistication  about 
her,  and  she  so  evidently  danced  because  she  loved 
it. 

Alec  Farnum  sat  straighter  in  his  seat  as  he  saw 
her  executing  steps  which  she  had  trod  on  his  garden 
lawn,  and  felt  the  contagion  of  her  dancing  catch 
the  house.  A  dim  doubt  began  to  stir  in  him.  He 
resented,  somehow,  Tom's  mutter,  half  inarticulate, 
"She  seems  to  be  enjoying  herself!"  He  vaguely 
wished  that  he  had  stayed  through  the  entire  per- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  165 

formance  that  first  night,  at  any  rate.  After  all, 
the  child  was  an  artist — she  was  getting  her  effect! 

They  went  to  the  stage  door  after  the  play  was 
out,  and  waited  a  long  time  for  Hazel.  Finally 
she  came,  a  cloak  about  her,  her  colour  high  on  her 
cheeks;  she  put  her  hand  quickly  and  impulsively  in 
Alec's,  and  barely  nodded  to  Tom. 

"I  only  came  because  you  asked  me  to,"  she 
whispered  to  the  Bird  House  Man,  and  the  three  of 
them  walked  in  constrained  silence  out  to  Broad- 
way. 

"Come,  we  are  all  hungry,"  Alec  cried,  as  cheer- 
fully as  possible.  "Let's  go  to  a  nice,  quiet  place  and 
eat,  if  there  is  such  a  thing  in  New  York." 

He  hailed  a  cab  and  drove  to  a  hotel  on  the 
Avenue,  where  the  dining-room  was  less  than  a 
quarter  full  at  this  time  of  night,  and  there  was  no 
cabaret.  Hazel  slipped  off  her  cloak,  and  Tom, 
looking  at  her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  behold  a 
stranger,  saw  that  she  had  on  a  dress  quite  without 
sleeves,  and  cut  decollete. 

She  drew  a  large  pink  scarf  about  her  neck  and 
shoulders  as  the  maid  took  her  coat,  quickly  shroud- 
ing her  upper  person  in  a  kind  of  filmy  cloud,  and 
followed  the  two  men  into  the  dining-room. 

Alec  gave  an  order,  and  then  looked  from  one  to 
the  other. 


166  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Well,  Hazel,"  he  said,  "here  is  Tom  back,  and 
here  are  you  turned  wild  duck!  It's  rather  quaint 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it." 

Hazel,  who  had  not  spoken  a  word  to  her  lover 
since  she  first  greeted  him,  now  looked  him  squarely 
in  the  eyes. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  she  said,  "is  why  Tom 
came  back." 

Alec  started  to  speak,  but  Hazel  raised  her  hand. 
"Please!"  she  said,  "from  Tom." 

The  scarf  had  fallen  away  a  little  from  her  right 
shoulder  at  her  gesture,  and  lay  around  her  upper 
arm,  so  that  the  shoulder  was  quite  bare  save  for 
the  inch-wide  strap  of  the  dress.  She  saw  Tom's 
eyes  upon  it,  and  deliberately  drew  the  scarf  back  in 
place,  not  taking  her  eyes  from  his  face.  Finally 
he  let  his  own  eyes  meet  hers. 

"Well,  I'll  not  try  to  bluff  it,"  he  answered.  "Mr. 
Farnum  wired  me  just  as  I  was  about  to  sail,  and  told 
me  what — what  you  were  doing,  and — and  that  it 
was  my  fault." 

"I  thought  so,"  she  said. 

"But  honestly,  Hazel,  I've  been  thinking  all 
across  the  continent  what  a  piker  I've  been,  and 
what  a  fool.  I  guess  there's  nothing  in  China  or 
anywhere  else  as  good  as  you!  I — I'm  different 
now,  I  swear  to  God  I  am!  I  want  to  take  you 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  167 

away  from  here.  I'll  get  a  job  anywhere  you  say. 
I'll — I'll  marry  you  to-morrow!  You  can't  stay 
where  you  are,  on  that  stage,  dressed  that  way!" 

"Why  don't  you  say  undressed — that's  what  you 
mean,"  Hazel  answered  quietly. 

"Yes,  that's  just  what  I  mean!"  cried  Tom  hotly. 

The  girl  smiled,  as  if  to  herself,  and  turned  toward 
the  Bird  House  Man.  "And  you  think  so,  too, 
Uncle  Alec,  do  you?"  she  asked.  "A  month  ago 
you  sent  Tom  away  because  it  was  better  for  me 
not  to  marry  him,  and  now,  just  because  I'm  wearing 
tights,  it's  better  for  me  to  marry  him.  It's  better 
to  be  unhappy  than  undressed,  is  that  it?" 

Alec  grinned  at  her  phrasing  in  spite  of  the  gravity 
of  the  situation.  "You  put  it  somewhat  bluntly," 
he  said. 

"I've  come  to  the  point  where  I  want  to  put  things 
the  way  they  are"  Hazel  replied.  "We  never  did 
in  Southmead.  We  never  do,  we  New  Englanders. 
I  want  to  get  at  the  real  reason  why  you  sent  for 
Tom,  and — and  inflicted  this  interview  on  me." 

"Here  comes  the  food,"  said  Alec,  "we'll  feel  better 
now." 

There  was  a  diversion  of  silence  while  the  waiter 
served  them. 

"And  now?  "  said  the  girl.  "  I  can't  believe  you're 
such  a  conventional  old  Puritan,  Uncle  Alec." 


168  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

The  Bird  House  Man  put  out  his  hand  along  the 
table  and  laid  it  on  hers.  "I'm  very  fond  of  you, 
Hazel,"  he  said.  "I  acted  on  an  impulse.  I  came 
to  New  York  to  see  you,  because  your  mother  was 
suffering  so,  and  when  I  did  see  you,  in  your  second 
costume,  I  fled  the  theatre  and  wired  to  Tom.  I'm 
a  man  who  has  lived  a  good  many  years  in  a  world 
full  of  men  and  women,  and  I  know  some  things 
which  praise  God  you  don't.  I  couldn't  bear  it, 
that  was  all.  I  have  no  daughters  of  my  own.  Ruth 
has  been  my  daughter,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
more,  including  a  little  person  with  fairy  feet  who 
came  when  you  called  Hazel.  Do  you  think  a 
father  would  want  to  see  his  child  stood  up  that  way 
in  the  public  gaze?  Do  you  think  he'd  want  to 
have  her  in  that  atmosphere  of — of  managers'  offices 
and  Broadway  show  girls ?  Do  you  think  he  wouldn't 
dream  for  her,  rather,  the  normal  home,  the  normal 
happiness?  Tom,  I  believe,  now " 

Hazel  interrupted  him.  "Never  mind  Tom," 
she  said.  "Let's  tackle  that  word  normal  first.  If 
most  of  the  world  danced  instead  of  watching  dancers 
dancing  would  be  normal,  wouldn't  it?  Normal 
things  are  for  normal  people.  Somebody's  got  to 
be  abnormal  to  keep  life  interesting,  I  guess.  If  I  like 
to  dance,  to  appear  in  public,  to  be  a  part  of  all  that 
life  behind  the  scenes — which  is  a  pleasant  change 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  169 

from  Southmead,  I  assure  you! — I  don't  see  why 
you  should  worry  about  me,  Uncle  Alec.  It  isn't 
like  you  to  preach  a  normal,  conventional  life  to 
somebody  who  can  find  more — more — more  satis- 
faction in  another  sort." 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that,"  Alec  replied.  He 
bit  his  lip  thoughtfully.  "Come,  I'll  be  brutal, 
too,"  he  added.  "What  hurts  me  is  to  see  you — 
stared  at." 

Hazel  again  interrupted  him  by  withdrawing  her 
hand.  "What  you  mean,"  she  said,  in  a  deadly 
quiet  voice,  "is  that  the  men  in  the  theatre  look  at 
me  the  way  Tom  looked  at  me  when  my  scarf  slipped 
from  my  shoulders.  Is  that  it?  " 

Alec  was  too  startled  to  reply.  The  girl  let  the 
scarf  slide  down  to  her  elbows,  deliberately,  showing 
her  white  bosom  and  shoulders  and  all  of  her  arms 
above  her  pink,  sleeveless  bodice. 

"I'm  shocking  you,  Uncle  Alec,"  she  continued, 
in  the  same  level  voice.  "But  I'm  telling  the  real 
truth.  Don't  fancy  for  a  minute  that  any  girl  with 
an  ounce  of  brains  doesn't  know  how  some  men 
look  at  her.  I've  watched  Tom  since  we  came 
into  this  dining-room.  I  wouldn't  marry  him  now 
— not  for — for — oh,  he  wants  me  now,  because 
I'm  not  dressed  like  Southmead  but  Broadway! 
Bah!" 


170  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

She  drew  the  scarf  up  close  about  her  bosom  with  a 
convulsive  movement,  and  shivered. 

"That  isn't  so!"  Tom  blurted  out.  "I  don't 
deny  I  never  saw  you  so  pretty,  Hazel.  I  never 
knew  you  were  so  pretty.  I  can't  help  looking  at 
you,  because  I  love  you.  Yes,  I  do,  I  love  you!  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  you  up  on  that  stage,  with  every- 
body staring  at  you,  any  more  than  Mr.  Farnum 
could.  I  guess  that's  the  way  every  chap  would  feel 
who  loves  a  girl.  You  ain't  fair.  Is  she,  Mr.  Far- 
num?" 

"No,  Tom,  I  don't  think  she  is,  not  wholly  fair," 
the  Bird  House  Man  answered  slowly.  "Perhaps 
we  are  not  wholly  fan*,  either." 

"Oh,  that  has  occurred  to  you,  has  it?"  cried  the 
girl.  "I'm  glad  of  that!  Perhaps  you  think  it  was 
easy  to  put  on  tights  for  the  first  time,  and  parade 
before  a  dirty  little  stage  manager  as  if  you  were  a 
heifer  at  the  cattle  show,  and  then  to  go  out  into  the 
awful  glare  of  those  footlights,  with  all  the  faces 
beyond  them!" 

Hazel's  voice  broke,  and  for  an  instant  she  lost 
control  of  herself.  But  the  tears  did  not  come. 
She  forced  them  back,  and  went  on  rapidly:  "Why 
do  you  suppose  I  did  it?  Why  do  you  suppose  I 
begged,  almost  on  my  knees,  for  a  chance  to  show  the 
stage  manager  that  I  could  dance?  It  was  for  the 


"  'I  can't  help  looking  at  you,  because  I  love  you.     Yes,  I 
do,  I  love  you!' 5: 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  171 

chance  really  to  dance.  Do  you  know  who  suggested 
our  costumes  in  the  second  act?  I  did.  We  didn't 
get  that  dance  till  almost  the  last  rehearsal,  and 
then  only  because  something  else  didn't  pan  out. 
And  you,  Uncle  Alec,  didn't  stay  to  see  it  before  you 
telegraphed  to  Tom!  Do  you  think  I'm  wearing 
tights  because  I  like  it?  It's  a  way  up — the  only 
way — that's  all.  People  like  my  dancing.  The 
manager  is  going  to  have  me  take  lessons.  I  love 
to  dance.  I  can  dance.  It's  a  beautiful  art.  It's 
an  art  as  much  as — as  anything  else.  I'm  not  going 
to  break  my  heart  for  you,  nor  anybody  else,  Tom 
Eames.  Neither  are  you  going  to  spoil  my  life. 
I've  found  what  I  can  do,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it! 
And  I  won't  have  you  talking  as  if  everybody  on  the 
stage  was  a — a  bad  woman!" 

She  paused,  breathless,  and  Alec  looked  at  her 
keenly.  "Yes,  you  can  dance,"  he  said.  "You  can 
dance  very  beautifully.  Will  you  never  be  home- 
sick?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  she  answered.  "Perhaps  I 
shall  be,  the  way  Tom  was,  and  come  back  to  South- 
mead  to  show  myself."  She  spoke  bitterly.  "The 
tights  would  make  quite  a  hit  at  a  church  social, 
wouldn't  they?"  she  added. 

She  began  to  draw  on  her  long  gloves.  "I'm 
very  tired,  Uncle  Alec,  I  wish  you'd  take  me  home," 


172  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

she  said,  beginning  to  rise.  The  dining-room  was 
by  now  deserted  save  for  a  sleepy  waiter  or  two  in  a 
far  corner. 

"Oh,  but  I  must  see  you  again!"  Tom  cried.  "I 
can't,  I  won't  let  you  go  like  this!  Hazel,  dearie, 
I  want  you  now  more  than  I  ever  thought  I  could 
want  anything.  On  my  word  of  honour,  I'll  never 
leave  you  again!" 

"You'll  never  see  me  again,  Tom,"  she  answered 
quietly,  "unless  you  pay  for  a  ticket  at  the  box  office. 
I  can't  prevent  that.  You  chose  your  life  once— 
I've  chosen  mine  now.  I  prefer  dancing  to  domes- 
ticity. I  can  hear  the  applause  of  the  audience,  and 
it  calls  to  me,  as  China  called  to  you.  Good-bye, 
Tom.  I  don't  need  to  be  angry  at  you  any  more." 

She  put  out  her  hand  as  they  reached  the  ante- 
room by  the  cloak  racks.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling 
strangely.  She  let  the  scarf  slide  once  more  from 
her  shoulders  as  she  made  ready  to  put  on  her 
wrap. 

Alec  turned  away  to  let  them  say  their  good-byes 
alone.  He  looked  for  the  cloak  girl,  who  had  dis- 
appeared, but  he  could  not  help  hearing  Tom  say, 
in  a  low,  passionate  voice:  "Hazel,  I  want  you! 
For  God's  sake,  kiss  me  once,  for  old  time's  sake. 
Remember  all  our  kisses  that  were  so  sweet!" 

He  heard  Hazel  give  a  low,  odd  laugh,  that  some- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  173 

how  made  him  shiver,  before  she  called  sharply: 
"Uncle  Alec,  please  help  me  with  my  wrap." 

He  turned  and  saw  Tom's  glum,  hungry,  tortured 
face,  and  caught  a  strange  glint  in  the  girl's  eyes  as 
she  was  snatching  her  cloak  away  from  her  lover. 
Without  another  word  she  walked  out  and  entered 
a  cab.  Alec  took  his  seat  beside  her.  She  did  not 
look  back  to  see  Tom  standing  in  the  doorway. 

They  rattled  on  a  block  or  two  in  silence,  and  then 
suddenly  Hazel  said:  "You'll  tell  mother  I'm  all 
right,  won't  you,  and  I'll  come  to  see  her  as  soon  as 
the  show  closes,  and — and  please  kiss  my  kitten  for 
me.  If — if  I'd  never  loved  him  so  I  shouldn't  be 
here,  should  I?  I  shouldn't  be  really  doing  some- 
thing in  the  world.  I — I'm  going  to  be  famous. 
I  got  notices  in  all  the  papers !  I'll  succeed,  won't  I?  " 

Alec  patted  her  hand.  "Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  he 
said. 

"It's — it's  better  so,  isn't  it?  You  really  believe 
it's  better,  don't  you?  I — I  tortured  him  at  the 
end.  I  meant  to.  I  was  wicked.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
didn't  have  any  sex!  Sometimes  it's  terrible,  it's 
horrible!  I  hate  myself  and  the  whole  world!  I'm 
just  going  to  dance,  and  dance,  and  create  beauty 
and  be  famous!  Oh,  how  I'm  going  to  work!" 

"Some  day,"  the  man  began  softly.  "Some 
day " 


174  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

But  she  put  her  hand  over  his  lips.  "You're  a 
dear  old  sentimentalist,"  she  said,  "and  if  you  don't 
come  to  see  me  every  time  you  come  to  New  York, 
and  if  you  don't  come  to  New  York  very  often,  I 
shall  never  forgive  you.  May  I  give  you  the  kiss 
I  didn't  give  Tom?  Oh,  I  think  you  understand, 
really,  down  deep.  You  can  never  make  mother 
understand,  though.  I — I  wish  I  had  my  kitten 
here." 

In  the  dark  cab  she  kissed  him,  and  he  felt  her 
cheek  wet  as  it  brushed  his  own. 

Then  the  shoddy  old  brownstone  swallowed  her 
from  his  view.  He  dismissed  the  cab,  and  walked 
through  deserted,  echoing  cross-streets  to  his  hotel, 
vaguely  aware  of  a  pale  star  overhead,  and  the 
sleeping  myriads  in  the  miles  of  houses,  all  with  their 
dreams,  their  passions,  their  ambitions — and  life 
seemed  to  him  very  difficult. 

"I'm  a  stupid  old  meddler,"  he  said  aloud.  "All 
I've  succeeded  in  doing  is  to  make  an  artist  out  of  a 
little  country  chit!" 

But  in  his  secret  heart  he  was  rather  glad. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  MEADOW   LARKS 

THE  Bird  House  Man,  walking  in  the  river  mead- 
ows as  the  afternoon  shadows  were  lengthening  and 
the  willows  were  turning  a  dusky  silver  in  the  low 
light,  focussed  his  field  glasses  on  a  distant  spot  on 
the  river  bank,  and  then  smiled.  He  put  the  glasses 
back  in  their  case  and  walked  quietly  in  that  direc- 
tion. As  he  drew  near,  a  meadow  lark  was  sing- 
ing in  a  tall  elm — a  reedlike,  piercingly  sweet  song 
tossed  out  on  the  afternoon  breeze.  The  couple  on 
the  bank,  whose  backs  were  turned,  did  not  hear 
him  approaching.  They  sat  close  together,  lover- 
like,  their  shoulders  touching,  their  voices  low. 

Alec  suddenly  imitated  the  song  of  the  lark  di- 
rectly behind  them,  and  with  a  startled  exclamation 
they  looked  around,  the  girl  snatching  her  hand  from 
her  lover's  clasp. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  she  said,  her  face  flushed  with  the 
surprise  of  being  discovered. 

"Yes,  it's  I,"  Alec  laughed,  "and  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  reproaches,  either.  If  you  choose  to  sit 
in  the  open  meadows,  with  your  backs  to  the  uni- 

175 


176  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

verse,  thinking  you  are  in  a  world  apart  just  because 
you  happen  to  feel  that  nobody  else  counts — why, 
you  must  expect  to  be  caught  at  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  you  catching  us!"  the  girl 
laughed,  blushing  still  rosier,  and  slipped  her  hand 
back  into  the  boy's. 

"Now  you  are  trying  to  make  me  jealous,"  Alec 
replied,  "so  just  to  spite  you  I'm  going  to  sit  right 
down  here  myself,  and  make  a  crowd." 

The  boy  couldn't  help  looking  a  little  glum,  though 
he  tried  hard  not  to,  but  the  girl  laughed  happily 
again.  "I'm  glad  you've  come,"  she  said.  "Jack 
has  been  telling  me  what  he's  going  to  do." 

"He  has!"  cried  the  Bird  House  Man.  "Well, 
that's  more  than  he's  told  me  yet.  As  soon  as  he 
gets  through  college,  he  comes  running  to  you,  and 
never  looks  me  up  at  all.  I  can't  imagine  why." 

"I  was  coming  to  see  you  soon,"  Jack  Cooper 
answered  solemnly.  "Honestly,  I  was.  But — but 
— I  hadn't  seen  Alma  since  Christmas  vacation. 
She  couldn't  get  to  my  Class  Day,  you  know,  'cause 
her  mother  was  sick." 

Alec  winked  at  Alma.  "Well,  maybe  I'll  forgive 
you,"  he  replied,  "though  I  can't  really  understand 
your  choice.  Now  let  me  also  hear  what  you're 
going  to  do  with  your  life,  as  the  baccalaureate 
sermonizers  say.  I  had  a  hard  enough  job  persuad- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  177 

ing  your  dad  to  let  you  go  to  college — you've  got 
to  have  some  pretty  big  plans  to  pay  me  back!" 

"Oh,  he  has  wonderful  plans!"  cried  Alma,  her 
eyes  resting  fondly  on  her  lover's  face.  "He's  going 
to  make  you  proud  of  him,  Uncle  Alec!" 

"He  has  already,  by  his  choice  of  a  helper,"  the 
man  answered. 

It  was  Alma's  turn  to  grow  sober.  "Oh,  I'll  try 
so  hard ! "  she  said.  "  But  I'm  so — so  unfitted.  I've 
never  been  educated  the  way  Jack  has.  I — I  don't 
know  why  he  hasn't  forgotten  me  for  some  smarter 
girl  somewhere.  I — I  shouldn't  blame  you,  Jack." 

Alec  saw  her  eyes  still  on  her  lover's,  and  tears 
were  very  close  to  them.  He  turned  away.  "Jack," 
he  said,  "I  see  a  loose-strife  on  the  bank  which  I'm 
going  to  pick." 

He  returned  with  the  flower  a  moment  or  two 
later.  "Now,  let's  hear  the  plans,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  call  'em 
plans,  exactly,"  Jack  began.  "Of  course,  they  are 
kind  of  vague  yet,  all  except  what  I'm  going  to  do 
right  away." 

"And  that  is?"  said  the  man. 

"Well,  I'm  going  on  the  New  York  Tribune  the 
first  of  September." 

"  Fine !    How  did  you  land  it  ?  " 

"I  did  correspondent  work  in  college — football 


178  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

games,  and  stuff  like  that,  and  they  said  they'd  give 
me  a  job  on  the  regular  staff  after  I  graduated. 
Guess  they  try  out  a  bunch  of  college  men  every 
year  or  so,  maybe.  'Course,  I  don't  know  if  I'll 
make  good " 

Alma  gave  his  hand  a  little  protesting  squeeze, 
and  their  eyes  met  for  a  second. 

"If  I  do  make  good,"  he  added,  as  if  her  look  had 
changed  his  line  of  thought,  "Alma  and  I  are  going 
to  announce  our  engagement." 

"Well,  well,"  Alec  cried,  "that  will  be  a  surprise 
to  everybody!  Do  hurry  up  and  make  good.  I 
want  to  see  the  consternation  among  all  Alma's 
other  beaux." 

The  girl  laughed  softly  through  her  blushes. 
"Silly,"  she  said,  "you  know  I  never  had  any  beau 
but  Jack.  Nobody  but  Jack  would  love  a  stupid 
little  mouse  like  me." 

It  was  the  boy's  turn  to  protest.  He  did  it  by 
laying  his  fingers  quickly  over  her  lips. 

They  both  fell  silent,  looking  at  each  other,  and 
Alec  waited,  a  smile  on  his  face. 

"Now  tell  Uncle  Alec  your  real  plans!"  Alma  said, 
suddenly  realizing  the  silence. 

The  boy  looked  a  trifle  uncomfortable.  "Oh, 
he'll  think  I'm  foolish,  I  guess." 

"  Probably,"  Alec  answered, "  but  try  me,  anyhow." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  179 

"Well,  I'm — I'm  not  going  to  be  a  newspaper  man 
always.  I'm — I'm  going  to  write!" 

"Don't  newspaper  men  write?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean — I  mean  really  write — 
stories,  essays,  books,  and — and  things." 

"He  means  poems"  said  Alma. 

"Poems,  eh?"  Alec  exclaimed.  "That's  fine!  I 
didn't  know  you  were  a  poet." 

"He's  written  some  beautiful  poems  to  me!" 
the  girl  said. 

"Oh,  those  were  nothing,"  the  boy  cut  in. 

"Nothing!     I  like  that!     Why,  Jack " 

"I  mean,  dear,  they  weren't  half  so  good  as  I 
shall  do  some  day,"  he  added  quickly.  "They 
were  just  undergraduate  verse." 

"They  were  very  beautiful,"  Alma  maintained 
stoutly. 

"Of  course  they  were,"  the  Bird  House  Man  inter- 
jected. "Don't  you  believe  what  Jack  says  about 
'em.  Artists  are  never  good  critics  of  their  own 
work.  When  did  you  first  feel  this  power,  Jack?" 

The  boy  looked  at  him  sharply,  as  if  he  detected 
a  certain  laughter  in  the  man's  words,  but  Alec's 
face  was  beaming  with  kindly  interest. 

"Well,"  he  said.  "I  never  was  much  for  poetry 
till  I  took  a  course  in  English  lit.  The  stuff  we  had 
to  learn  in  Southmead  High  School  used  to  bore  me. 


180 

But  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the  '  Golden  Treasury'  I  be- 
gan to  find  things  that  sort  of  made  me  choke  up, 
and  I  got  to  liking  poetry  better  and  better,  till  along 
one  rainy  afternoon,  when  I'd — I'd — well,  I  guess 
I'd  been  thinking  of  Alma  all  day,  and  wishing  I 
was  home  seeing  her,  I  got  to  reading  Shelley  in  the 
college  library,  and  I  just  read  and  read  till  it  was 
dinner-time,  and  I  went  back  after  dinner  and  read 
till  closing  time.  Then  the  next  day  I  got  to  going 
in  Keats — gee,  the  'Eve  of  St.  Agnes'  is  some  poem! 
— and  I  followed  it  up  with  a  lot  of  Wordsworth. 
And  after  that  I  just  moved  around  in  poetry  most 
of  the  time.  Then,  one  day,  I  was  so  full  up  with  it 
that  I  just  had  to  get  out  and  take  a  long  walk.  I 
hiked  up  to  a  hill  above  Lexington,  and  I  was  stand- 
ing there  while  the  sun  was  setting  over  the  rolling 
fields  and  meadows,  and  in  the  west  a  great  Him- 
alayan range  of  cumuli  was  piled  up,  and  the  sun 
dropped  down  behind  the  peaks  and  turned  'em 
all  gold  and  pink  and  salmon,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  I  could  climb  to  the  top  and  look  over  into 
a  wonderful  Promised  Land,  and — and  find  Alma 
there,  waiting;  and  I  just  felt  as  if  it  was  my  job  in 
life  to  write  poetry  that  would  make  people  realize 
how  beautiful  the  old  world  is,  and  how  full  of  love 
and  longing!  I — I  felt  as  if  I'd  had  a  call,  the  way 
ministers  do,  I  guess." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  181 

Jack  paused,  out  of  breath. 

"Hope  you  don't  think  I'm  foolish,"  he  added, 
with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

The  girl  had  reached  over  and  taken  his  hand 
again.  Alec  was  gazing  out  at  the  slow  current  of 
the  river  below  their  feet. 

"By  how  many  names  it  is  known!"  he  said  softly, 
as  if  to  himself.  "It  is  the  Divine  Unrest,  it  is  the 
Blue  Flower  of  Romance,  it  is  the  Gleam.  It  is 
Youth  and  Love.  Jack,  may  you  ever  steer  your 
bark  for  the  land  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
of  all  the  western  stars!  Think  you  foolish?  It  is 
we  who  are  foolish,  we  old  fellows  under  the  shade 
of  the  prison  house,  we  who  see  in  the  sunset  only  a 
signal  for  supper.  Follow  the  Gleam,  boy,  follow  the 
Gleam!" 

"I'm  going  to!"  Jack  replied,  his  eyes  sparkling 
once  more  with  enthusiasm.  He  was  looking  away 
from  Alma  now,  out  across  the  meadows.  She 
gazed  into  his  face,  and  seemed  to  realize  that  his 
thoughts  were  not  upon  her.  "I'm  going  on  a 
newspaper  to  earn  money,  and  to  see  life.  Of  course, 
a  fellow  can't  make  a  living  just  writing,  at  first. 
And  a  fellow  can't  write  till  he's  seen  life.  I'm  going 
to  write  American  poetry — not  Longfellow  stuff, 
but  real  American  poetry  of  our  day  and  our  new 
conditions.  The  world  is  different  now.  Our  whole 


182  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

economic  structure  is  different,  and  we've  got  to 
have  a  new,  a  different  poetry  to  give  men  a  beauty 
and  a  faith  that  meets  their  needs.  That's  going 
to  be  my  task!" 

His  eyes  were  transfixed  as  with  a  vision.  The 
girl  once  more  laid  her  hand  on  his,  but  timidly  this 
time.  Alec  watched  them  both  a  moment  in  silence, 
and  then  he  rose. 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "come  to  see  me  soon,  and  bring 
some  of  your  work.  Let's  thrash  it  over  together. 
I  used  to  write  poetry,  too,  once  on  a  time.  If  Alma 
only  loved  me,  I  might  again,  by  Jinks!" 

The  girl  turned  her  face  up  to  him  softly.  "I 
do  love  you,  Uncle  Alec,"  she  said.  "You  know 
it." 

He  shook  his  head  most  mournfully,  and  gestured 
to  the  surrounding  meadows. 

"A  cloudless  sky,  where  Jack  and  I 
Are  twenty -two  forever," 

rhe  paraphrased.  "That's  how  you  feel.  I  feel 
'chilly  and  grown  old.'  Good-bye,  my  children, 
and  God  bless  you  for  a  pair  of  meadow  larks  whis- 

ring  secrets  to  the  river  as  it  runs." 

He  moved  away  quickly.  Turning  once,  a  long 
way  off,  he  saw  the  lovers  still  sitting  on  the  bank. 
Beyond  them,  on  the  river  bend,  the  willows  were  a 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  183 

smoky  blue  now,  and  in  the  west  a  great  cumulus 
lay  like  Mount  Everest  against  the  sunset,  and  from 
its  peak  one  might  gaze  into  the  ultimate  Thibet  of 
the  ideal.  He  raised  his  glasses,  and  looked  at 
the  pair  half  hidden  by  the  river  shrubs.  But  he 
took  the  glasses  quickly  down,  and  laughed  a  soft, 
deep,  tender  chuckle. 

Out  on  the  road  he  met  Dr.  Tommy  Trask  strid- 
ing along  on  his  lank  legs. 

"Whoa,  Tommy!"  he  cried,  blocking  his  path. 
"Did  you  ever  have  a  Keatsy  feeling?" 

"A  what  ?"  said  the  astonished  doctor.  "I  don't 
believe  I  ever  heard  of  that.  Is  it  due  to  a  germ?  " 

"Alas,  if  it  only  were!"  sighed  Alec.  "I'd  start 
a  culture  right  away.  Tommy,  you  are  an  ex- 
cellent man  of  science.  Go  home  and  kiss  your 
wife." 

He  left  the  astonished  doctor  gaping  after  him, 
and  went  whistling  on  toward  the  Bird  House. 
That  evening  he  took  down  his  Keats,  spanked 
the  dust  off,  and  read  in  it  for  a  long  while,  finally 
closing  the  volume  with  a  sigh. 

"Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird," 
he  quoted  aloud,  lingering  on  the  long-drawn  ca- 
dence. Then  he  rose,  and  put  the  book  back  on  the 
shelf.  "Our  hermit  thrush  sings  a  far  lovelier  song 
than  the  nightingale,"  he  added.  "Once  I  dreamed 


184  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

of  making  him  immortal  with  an  ode!  Go  to  bed, 
you  old  fool." 

Some  days  later  Jack  brought  what  he  described 
as  a  "batch  of  masterpieces"  to  the  Bird  House, 
and  he  and  Alec  read  them,  discussed  them,  fought 
about  them,  hurling  quotations  at  each  other,  and 
babbling  about  octets  and  sestets  and  trochees  and 
dactyls  and  vers  libre,  till  poor  Alma,  who  sat  si- 
lently in  a  corner,  was  quite  bewildered.  The  next 
afternoon  she  came  softly  into  the  shop  where  Alec 
was  working,  and  stood  twisting  her  handkerchief. 

"Uncle  Alec,"  she  finally  said,  "will — will  you 
lend  me  some  of  those  books  you  and  Jack  were, 
talking  about?" 

The  man's  keen  gray  eyes  bent  kindly  upon  her. 
"What  do  you  want  'em  for,  young  lady?  "  he  asked. 

"You — you  know,"  she  replied.  "I  want  them 
to  read,  so  I'll  not  be  so  terribly  ignorant  of  what 
Jack  is  doing,  and — and — and  such  a  drag  on  him." 

"No,  I  won't  lend  'em  to  you  for  any  such  pur- 
pose!" he  cried,  bringing  down  his  hammer  with 
tremendous  force  on  an  unsuspecting  nail. 

"You— you  won't?" 

"No,  marm!  Not  when  you  talk  that  way! 
You  can  have  'em  to  get  pleasure  and  profit  out  of; 
you  can  have  'em  to  equip  yourself  better  to  pick 
Jack's  efforts  to  pieces.  He's  not  hah*  such  a  good 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  185 

poet  as  he  thinks  he  is,  you  know — or,  rather,  you 
don't  know,  because  you're  in  love  with  him.  But 
don't  you  ever  say  in  my  presence  again  that  you're 
a  drag  on  him.  If  Jack's  a  poet  at  all,  it's  because  of 
you.  Every  man  owes  what  sensitiveness  of  soul 
he  may  possess  to  his  first  love.  So  no  more  of 
that  talk,  young  lady!" 

Alec  laid  down  his  tools,  and  led  the  way  into  his 
garden,  where  he  picked  a  dozen  sprays  of  his  choicest 
sweet  peas — Wedgwoods  and  Earl  Spencers — and 
fixed  them  on  the  bosom  of  Alma's  plain  white  frock. 
Then  he  laughed,  and  ushered  her  into  the  house. 

They  sat  a  long  time  together,  looking  at  books, 
while  he  told  her  what  to  read.  When  she  left,  her 
colour  was  high  with  excitement,  and  under  her  arm 
she  carried  four  green  Globe  editions,  the  little  blue 
"  Golden  Treasury  of  Songs  and  Lyrics,"  and  a  criti- 
cal history  of  English  literature.  Alec  watched  her 
trudging  down  the  street  with  her  load,  and  chuckled 
to  himself. 

Alma  came  every  week  after  that  for  her  "lesson," 
as  she  called  it;  and  every  week  she  grew  graver 
at  the  magnitude  of  the  task  before  her. 

"There  is  so  much  to  learn!"  she  said  one  day,  her 
low,  smooth  forehead  puckered  with  a  frown.  "I 
never  knew  how  much.  Oh,  what  a  joke  our  silly 
high  school  is!  Don't  tell  Jack  I'm  trying,  will  you? 


186  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

I  know  I  shall  never  succeed.  All  I  manage  to  do  is 
to  feel  myself  growing  older  and  older  with  the  great 
mountain  of  knowledge  still  ahead." 

Alec  laughed.  "That  mountain  is  still  ahead  of 
all  of  us,"  he  said.  "All  we  can  hope  to  win  is  some 
little  foothill  crag  from  which  we  can  see  the  valley 
of  our  ignorance  behind,  and  the  real  contours  of 
some  of  the  range  ahead.  Call  it  a  vantage  point  of 
taste,  if  you  like.  Most  people  don't  get  that  far, 
even  in  art.  They  still  like  motion  pictures." 

The  frown  deepened  on  Alma's  brow.  "I — I 
want  to  learn  about  newspapers,  now,"  she  said. 
"That's  Jack's  immediate  problem,  isn't  it?  How 
can  I  learn  about  newspapers?" 

"Whew!"  said  Alec.  "Now  you've  set  me  a 
poser.  What  I  don't  know  about  newspapers  would 
get  out  the  whole  Sunday  edition.  I  guess  you 
have  to  learn  about  them  by  being  on  'em.  It's  an 
awful  idea!  I  once  heard  an  editor  say,  though, 
that  the  only  indispensable  man  on  his  force  was  the 
telephone  switch  girl." 

"Votes  for  women,"  Alma  laughed.  "But  you 
see  I  don't  even  know  how  to  run  a  switchboard." 

"I  hardly  think  the  knowledge  essential  to  marital 
happiness,"  Alec  replied.  "Better  stick  to  Keats." 

"But  I  want  to  understand  all  Jack  does,"  she 
said. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  187 

"That's  more  than  he'll  do  himself,  for  a  while," 
Alec  laughed. 

It  was  a  week  later,  in  August,  when  Alma  once 
more  came  to  the  Bird  House.  Her  face  was  drawn 
and  white.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  been  weep- 
ing and  that  she  was  still  suffering  miserably.  Alec 
Farnum  took  one  look  at  her,  cried  "Hello!  what's 
the  matter,  child?"  and  led  her  into  a  shady  nook  in 
the  garden. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  "he's — he's  gone  away!" 

"Gone  away?  What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  I 
saw  him  this  morning  at  the  post-office." 

"He's  gone  away.  He — he  got  a  letter  from  some 
girl,  and  he's  gone  to  see  her." 

"Gone  where  to  see  her?" 

"I  don't  know — some  beach  place — Watch  Hill, 
I  guess.  She — she's  from  the  West.  He  says  he 
met  her  last  winter  in  Boston.  He  never  told  me 
about  her  before.  She  just  wrote  and  said  that  she 
was  at  Watch  Hill,  and  he  packed  right  up  and 
went!" 

Alma's  white  face  was  pathetically  miserable,  and 
the  man  looked  at  her  pityingly. 

"The  young  scalawag,"  he  cried,  "to  make  you 
unhappy  this  way!  He  ought  to  have  lied  about  it." 

Alma  looked  at  the  man  with  great,  surprised  eyes. 
"Why,  Uncle  Alec,  what  do  you  mean?  I  never 


188  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

heard  you  say  anything  like  that  before!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say,"  he  replied.  "When  a 
young  fellow  of  twenty-two,  with  a  temperament, 
develops  a  momentary  Mormon  impulse,  he  oughtn't 
to  let  the  girl  he  loves  know  anything  about  it. 
That  may  sound  immoral,  but  it's  very  sensible." 

"No,  no,  no!  that  would  be  terrible!  A  girl 
would  always  find  out,  and  she  could  never  forgive 
being  deceived,  though  she  might  forgive  the — the 
other.  I'm  glad  Jack  told  me  where  he  was  going." 

"You  are,  eh?    Just  what  did  he  tell  you? " 

"He  told  me  he  met  this  girl  in  Boston — she  was 
studying  there.  He  said  they  had  a  lot  of  ideas  in 
common,  especially  about  poetry.  They  wrote  some 
poetry  together,  or  something,  I  guess.  Anyhow, 
she  made  him  promise  that  if  she  came  East  this 
summer  he'd  come  to  see  her." 

"She  made  him  promise,  eh?"  said  Alec,  with  a 
chuckle.  "Our  young  Shelley  is  like  all  of  the  breed. 
Didn't  he  assure  you  that  he  didn't  really  care  any- 
thing about  her — not  that  way?" 

Alma  nodded  affirmatively,  not  trusting  to  speech. 

"Well,  the  joke  of  it  is  that  he  really  doesn't — 
the  young  idiot." 

"He's  not  an  idiot!"  cried  the  girl.  She  was  very 
close  to  tears  now.  "It's  I  who  am  the  idiot.  I'm 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  189 

just  ignorant.  When  he  meets  somebody  who  can 
really  talk  poetry  and  things  with  him,  he  leaves  me. 
I — he — it  isn't  right  for  me  to  try  to  keep  him." 

"Nonsense,  likewise  piffle,  not  to  mention  rub- 
bish!" cried  the  man.  "I  know  your  Jack  better 
than  you  do,  because  I  was  Jack  once.  All  Jacks, 
at  a  certain  age,  have  a  superficial  susceptibility 
to  the  allurements  of  anything  in  petticoats.  The 
prettier  the  object  in  petticoats  is,  the  more  Jack 
thinks  he's  swapping  intellectual  and  spiritual  ideas 
— the  more  he  'has  in  common.'  It's  something  he 
has  to  get  over,  like  the  mumps.  Your  Jack  loves 
you  just  as  much  as  he  ever  did,  and  he  can't  under- 
stand why  you  can't  understand  that  he  does." 

Alma  shook  her  head.  "I  certainly  can't  under- 
stand it,"  she  said.  "Do  you  think  I'd  go  away 
like  this,  to  see  another  man,  only  two  or  three  weeks 
before  Jack  and  I  had  to  separate?  I  guess  not!" 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't,  my  dear  girl.  You  are 
a  grown  woman,  and  Jack  is  a  temperamental  boy 
who  thinks  he's  seeing  life  for  the  good  of  his  art, 
when  he's  really  working  off  his  Mormon  tendencies 
before  he  settles  down  to  manhood.  What  you  want 
to  do  is  to  spank  him  good  and  proper  when  he  re- 
turns." 

"I  shan't  be  here  when  he  returns,"  she  said  very 
quietly.  "I'm  going  away  to  visit  in  Boston.  I 


190  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

— I  won't  see  him  when  he  comes  back  for  anything 
—I  couldn't.  I — I — I  won't  stand  hi  his  light.  If 
he  has  more  in  common  with  somebody  else  than 
with  me,  he  can  have  her.  He — he  ought  to  have 
her,"  she  added  bravely. 

Alec  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence.  "That's 
a  good  idea,"  he  said  presently,  with  a  tender  smile. 
"  You  go  away,  and  see  what  Jack  does  when  he  gets 
back." 

"Oh,  I'm  going,  soon,"  she  said.  "I — I  don't 
care  what  Jack  does  when  he  gets  back.  "May 
— may  I  take  some  of  the  poetry  books  with  me? 
I'll  be  awfully  careful  of  them." 

"You  may,  the  whole  library,"  Alec  replied. 
"When  is  Jack  coming  back?" 

"I — I  don't  know.  If  he  came  back  right  away 
it  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  But  he  said,  just  as  if  it 
wasn't  almost  killing  me,  'I'll  only  be  gone  a  week 
or  so' — a  week  or  so,  and  we  parting  at  the  end  of 
this  month!  Oh,  how  could  he — how  could  he?" 

Her  tears  could  no  longer  be  restrained,  and  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  Alec  led  her  out  of  the  garden. 

When  Jack  returned  a  week  later  she  had  gone. 
He  tore  around  to  the  Bird  House. 

"What  does  Alma  mean?"  he  cried.  "Here  I 
get  home  and  find  a  note  from  her  saying  she's 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  191 

gone  away  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and  she  never 
wrote  to  me  once  while  I  was  at  Watch  Hill,  and 
she  says  you  know  why  she  went.  Is  she  jealous, 
or  what?  Why  are  girls  so  silly?  I  told  her  I  didn't 
care  anything  about  Elsie  Barnes,  not  that  way.  I'd 
promised  to  go  see  her  if  she  came  East,  'promised 
to — like  a  house  party,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Alec  gravely.  "But  you 
should  be  careful  how  you  make  rash  promises." 

"But  it  wasn't  a  rash  promise.  Good  Lord,  a 
fellow  can  have  friends,  can't  he,  girl  friends,  I 
mean?" 

"Not  always  with  safety,  at  certain  times  of  life, 
not  when  it  means  wrenching  the  heart  strings  of  the 
girl  who  really  loves  him,"  said  Alec. 

"Good  gracious,  didn't  Alma  believe  me?  Does 
she  think  that ' 

"I  think  those  are  questions  you'd  better  ask 
Alma,"  the  man  interrupted.  "All  I  know  is  that 
poor  Alma  believes  you  like  the  other  girl  better  be- 
cause she's  had  more  education  in  poetry,  and  so 
Alma  thinks  it's  her  duty  to  give  you  up,  for  your  own 
good." 

The  man  was  looking  at  his  young  friend  keenly, 
and  Jack  grew  red. 

"Oh,  it's  preposterous!"  he  cried.  "Why,  I 
never  loved  anybody  but  Alma!  I — I  liked  Elsie. 


192  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

She  and  I  had  a  lot  of  fun  doing  sonnets  together. 
She — she  interested  me.  A  fellow's  got  to  know  all 
kinds  of  people.  A  fellow's  got  to  see  life.  But  I 
never  loved  her.  Where  is  Alma?  I'll  go  find  her 
right  off." 

"I  think  she's  somewhere  in  Boston/' 

"Boston,  whew!  And  I  used  up  'most  all  the 
money  I  had  getting  to  Watch  Hill  and  back!  Oh, 
gee,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"That  is  an  economic  problem,"  the  man  smiled. 
"  The  older  you  grow,  the  more  you  realize  that  an  eco- 
nomic problem  is  at  the  bottom  of  everything.  How 
much  do  you  need?" 

"I — I  couldn't  take  it  from  you." 

"No,  because  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  you.  But  I'll 
lend  it.  Will  fifteen  dollars  be  enough?" 

"Sure." 

Alec  gravely  handed  over  the  money,  and  then 
wrote  an  I.  O.  U.  which  the  boy  signed. 

"Now  you  can  pay  me  out  of  your  munificent 
salary,  as  soon  as  you  get  to  work,"  said  Alec. 
"You're  lucky  I  don't  charge  you  interest.  Run 
along  and  find  Alma's  address  from  her  mother,  and 
go  bring  her  home.  No  more  co-educational  sonnets 
on  the  way,  either!" 

Two  days  later  Jack  was  back,  and  Alma  with 
him.  They  came  all  the  way  from  Boston  together, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  193 

on  the  train,  and  Millie  Tilton,  hearing  about  it, 
ran  into  the  garden  of  the  Bird  House  to  tell  Alec. 

"It's  scandalous,  I  think,"  she  said.  "In  our 
day  young  men  and  girls  were  not  allowed  to  do 
such  things." 

"In  our  day,  Millie?"  Alec  laughed.  "Why, 
this  is  my  day — I  don't  know  about  you.  I  consider 
the  present  always  mine.  Try  it — you'll  find  it 
saves  you  a  lot  of  fret." 

"Well,  if  you  think  it's  all  right  for "  Miss 

Millie  began. 

"I  think  they  probably  had  a  fine  time,"  Alec 
interrupted.  "There  wasn't  a  soul  to  bother  'em 
for  six  mortal  hours,  and  they  probably  played  honey- 
moon." 

Miss  Millie  retired,  convinced  of  the  uselessness 
of  argument,  and  late  the  same  evening  Jack  ap- 
peared at  the  Bird  House. 

He  was  very  sober.  He  came  into  Alec's  study, 
filled  his  pipe,  and  stared  at  his  feet  thoughtfully. 
The  man  let  him  stare,  and  waited. 

"I — I  guess  I'm  older  than  when  I  went  away," 
he  said  presently. 

"Yes?  I  guessed  as  much,  too,"  the  man  said 
kindly.  "But  you  brought  Alma  back,  didn't 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes!    And  she'll  never  have  another  such 


194  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

occasion  to  go  away.  Do  you  know  what  I  found  her 
doing?" 

"No,  what  did  you  find  her  doing?" 

"She  was  staying  at  a  cousin's  in  Newton,  and  had 
got  a  job  as  telephone  operator!" 

"A  telephone  operator?     Why  that?" 

"Well,  she  wouldn't  tell  me  at  first,  but  finally 
she  did.  It  was  because  you  said  to  her  a  switch- 
board girl  in  a  newspaper  office  learned  a  lot  about 
newspaper  work,  and  she  was  fitting  herself  to  apply 
for  a  job  on  a  Boston  newspaper." 

Alec  drew  in  his  breath  hi  a  long  whistle.  "You 
have  to  be  careful  what  you  tell  a  woman!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "They're  so  apt  to  believe  you." 

"Yes,"  Jack  went  on,  "she  was  really  planning  to 
stay  in  Boston  and  work  on  a  newspaper  that  way. 
And  just  because  she  thought  that  maybe  some  day 
I  might  get  tired  of  the  other  girl,  and  come  back  to 
her,  and  then  she  could  help  me  better  in  my  work! 
Why,  when  I  got  the  confession  out  of  her,  I — I — I 
just  blubbered  like  a  kid.  I — I  guess  I'm  not  worth 
that  kind  of  love." 

"  I  guess  you're  not.  None  of  us  polygamous  male 
bipeds  is,"  said  Alec.  "Still,  you're  the  best  she  has 
to  give  such  love  to,  and  now  you've  got  it  I  advise 
you  to  keep  it  as  the  most  precious  possession  you'll 
ever  have." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  195 

"Oh,  I  will,  I  will!"  the  boy  exclaimed.  "It's 
— it's  made  me  feel  older  and — and  sort  of  grown  up, 
though.  I  never  knew  folks'  feelings  could  be  so 
—so  deep.  Why,  she  never  even  reproached  me. 
When  I  came  to  her  and  she  believed  finally  that  I 
loved  her,  and  only  her,  she  just  said,  'That's  all 
right,  Jack,'  and — and  cried." 

Alec  smiled  softly  to  himself.  "There's  more  than 
one  way  to  learn  about  life,  isn't  there?"  he  said. 

"I  guess  there  is,"  Jack  answered.  "I  guess  this 
was  the  real  thing!" 

"Will  you  tell  me  something,  and  not  think  I'm 
an  impertinent  old  meddler?"  the  man  continued. 

"Ask  it." 

"Did  you  play  honeymoon  on  the  way  home  in 
the  train?" 

Jack  blushed  like  a  schoolboy,  and  nodded  his 
head.  "We — we  pretended  we  were  on  our  wedding 
trip,"  he  answered.  "Gee,  but  I'm  going  to  work 
hard,  and  pull  off  that  trip  really,  as  soon  as  I  can! 
I  never  knew  how  much  I  loved  Alma  till — till  this. 
Is — is  it  wrong  to  want  her  so,  you — you  know  what 
I  mean?" 

"It  is  very  right  and  good,"  the  man  answered 
gravely,  "if  you  don't  forget  there  is  another  side  to 
love.  Never  forget  that  Alma  wants  to  know  about 
the  things  you  do.  Talk  poetry  with  her.  Keep 


196  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

her  in  all  phases  of  your  life.  Have  everything  in 
common  with  her — that  was  the  phrase,  I  believe?" 
The  boy  coloured.  "Don't  rub  it  in,'*  he  said. 
"  Well,  good-night,  Uncle  Alec.  I'm  going  home  now 
to  write  a  sonnet.  Gee,  I've  got  a  corking  idea  for 
one!  The  last  line's  been  singing  in  my  head  ever 
since  we  got  on  the  train  to  come  home.  It's  this: 

1  "Forgiveness  came  like  daybreak  on  her  face! 

I'm  going  to  work  all  night  on  it!" 

The  man  walked  with  him  to  the  door  and 
patted  his  shoulder  affectionately.  Then  he  went  back 
to  his  study,  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"To  sit  up  all  night  for  a  sonnet!"  he  mused. 
"Oh,  youth,  youth!" 

Then  he  went  to  bed. 

The  next  afternoon,  walking  again  in  the  river 
meadows,  he  saw  from  afar  two  figures  on  the  bank, 
and  put  up  his  glasses.  Two  heads  were  bent  over 
a  sheet  of  paper.  The  boy's  lips  were  moving. 
The  girl  had  her  two  arms  clasped  around  his  elbow, 
and  her  cheek  brushed  his  shoulder.  Once,  for  a 
second,  Alec  thought  he  saw  her  lips  caress  his  sleeve. 

The  man  put  down  his  glasses  and  turned  off  in  the 
opposite  direction.  Over  his  head,  in  a  great  vast 
elm,  high  aloft,  a  meadow  lark  was  singing  toward 
the  west,  a  piercingly  sweet  melody. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   CHICKADEE 

MISS  MILLIE  TILTON,  closely  followed  by 
Siegfried,  her  dachshund,  came  past  the  path  to  her 
own  door,  and  turned  up  the  path  to  Alec  Farnum's 
shop,  where  the  Bird  House  Man  was  at  work. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  she  said. 

"No,  but  I  expect  to,"  he  smiled. 

Miss  Millie  made  a  little  face  at  him.  Then  the 
solemnity  of  her  announcement  overcame  her  again, 
and  she  said  in  a  duly  subdued  voice,  "Mrs.  Roberts 
is  dead." 

Alec  laid  down  his  plane.  "Well,  well,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Clara  can  have  a  life  of  her  own  now ! " 

"Why,  Alec  Farnum,  what  a  heartless,  wicked 
thing  to  say!"  cried  the  little  spinster. 

"Nonsense,  Millie,"  said  he.  "You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  Mrs.  Roberts  was  a  mollusc  of  the  worst 
type-  -" 

"A  what?" 

"A  mollusc.  No,  I  suppose  you  never  saw  that 
play.  Well,  a  woman  who  just  stuck  to  one  piece 
of  rock  and  played  helpless,  and  so  got  waited  on  till 

197 


198  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

the  day  of  her  death.  She  was  no  more  an  invalid 
than  you  or  I,  in  my  not-too-humble  opinion.  I 
don't  suppose  Dr.  Tommy  Trask  would  express  his 
—in  public,  anyhow.  And  poor  Clara  just  gave  up 
her  life  to  that  woman — gave  up  her  life  and  her 
lover,  too." 

"But  what  else  could  she  do?"  demanded  Miss 
Millie.  "She  was  all  her  mother  had." 

"Let  her  mother  cook  her  own  dinners  or  die  of 
starvation!"  said  Alec,  giving  a  nail  a  sudden  terrific 
whack  which  caused  Siegfried  and  Miss  Millie  both 
to  jump. 

"Oh,  Alec,  why  do  you  talk  so?"  the  woman  de- 
manded. "You  know  you  don't  mean  it." 

"Mean  it?  Well,  it's  only  half  what  I  mean,  to 
be  sure!  Millie,  if  I  should  say  all  I  mean,  you'd 
die  of  shock  right  there  in  my  doorway  and  poor 
Bologna  would  be  without  a  parent's  tender  care. 
You  know  perfectly  well  that  Clara  Roberts  is 
twenty-eight  years  old  and  unwed,  because  her 
mother  wouldn't  move  from  Southmead  when  Don 
Barker  wanted  to  marry  the  poor  girl,  and  Clara, 
with  the  abominable  conscience  of  you  New  England 
women,  couldn't  leave  her  behind.  Can't  you  hear 
the  old  lady  weeping  and  telling  Clara  how  she'd 
die  if  she  was  left  alone?" 

"Well,  it's  my  belief  that  Don  Barker  didn't  try 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  199 

so  very  hard  to  induce  her  to  come  away  with  him 
and  Clara,"  said  Miss 'Millie. 

"My  God,  can  you  blame  him?"  cried  Alec. 

Miss  Millie  drew  herself  up.  "If  you  are  going  to 
curse,  it  is  time  I  went,"  said  she. 

"Yes,  you  go  right  along  to  Clara's  house,  and 
tell  her  I'm  here  to  do  anything  I  can  if  she  needs 
me,"  he  smiled.  "I'll  be  up  there  presently  my- 
self." 

All  Southmead  agreed  that  Clara  didn't  seem  to 
take  her  mother's  death  as  hard  as  some  girls  would 
have  done,  but  then,  as  all  Southmead  said  in  ex- 
tenuation, Clara  was  such  a  cheery  little  body  that 
you  could  never  tell  how  she  really  was  taking  a 
thing,  anyhow.  A  week  after  the  funeral  the  Bird 
House  Man  saw  her  hurrying  along  the  street  in 
front  of  his  shop,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  she 
actually  appeared  to  be  singing  under  her  breath. 
She  was  just  the  type  that  is  perfectly  described  by 
the  old  Yankee  phrase,  "a  cheery  little  body."  She 
was  a  trifle  below  the  normal  height,  and  a  trifle 
above  the  normal  weight — "a  plump  and  pleasing 
person."  Once,  as  a  young  girl,  she  must  have  been 
unusually  pretty,  and  she  was  attractive  still,  but 
her  type  seems  to  settle  down  sooner  than  others  into 
a  comfortable  acceptance  of  maturity.  She  had 
large,  round,  merry  brown  eyes,  and  an  infectious 


200  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

laugh.  Her  chief  avocation  during  the  life  of  her 
mother  (who  supplied  vocation  enough  for  anybody) 
was  the  instruction  of  new  mothers  in  the  care  of 
their  offspring.  She  had  a  passion  for  babies,  and 
since  Southmead  had  not  yet  reached  a  point  of 
progressiveness  where  a  visiting  nurse  was  considered 
a  necessity,  Clara  Roberts  found  plenty  to  do.  She 
went  trotting  about  in  all  weathers,  cheerful  and 
helpful,  ministering  in  the  trail  of  Dr.  Tommy  Trask. 
Alec  Farnum  called  to  her  out  of  the  door  of  his 
shop,  by  whistling  the  chickadees'  love  song: 


± 


She  stopped,  and  looked  up. 

"So  you  recognize  the  call?"  he  said. 

"No,  but  I  do  the  caller,"  she  answered.  "What 
was  it?" 

"  That's  the  chickadees'  call,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a 
chickadee  sort  of  person,  you  know,  always  brave 
and  cheerful  and  friendly — and  pleasantly  rotund." 

"At  least  I  thank  you  for  the  'pleasantly,'"  she 
laughed. 

"What  have  you  got  in  that  basket?"  he  asked. 
"May  I  see?" 

"Oh,  I'd  love  to  show  you!"    She  ran  up  the  path 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  201 

and  put  the  basket  down  on  a  bench  beside  a  half- 
finished  martin  house,  quickly  lifting  the  lid.  In- 
side was  a  collection  of  baby  clothes,  which  she  took 
out  one  by  one,  and  held  them  up  for  Alec's  inspec- 
tion— two  little  dresses,  a  cap,  and  socks  which 
Alec  said  looked  like  thumb  protectors. 

"Aren't  they  sweet?"  she  fairly  chirped.  "They're 
for  Minnie  O'Brien's  little  baby,  which  I  hope  won't 
be  a  boy,  because  he'll  probably  drink  and  break  her 
heart." 

"Probably,"  Alec  answered.  "Minnie  has  no 
right  to  have  babies  under  the  circumstances." 

"Oh,  no  right?" 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  the  man  said  quickly. 
"We  won't  talk  eugenics.  Did  you  make  all  these 
since " 

"Since  mother  died?"  she  helped  him.  "Yes, 
every  one.  You  see,  there  was  so  little  to  do  in  the 
house  after  mother  went  that  I  just  had  to  do  some- 
thing to  fill  up  the  hole.  I — I — don't  know  what 
would  become  of  me  if  I  should  just  sit  down  and 
fold  my  hands." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Alec,  shaking  his  head.  "I 
suppose  not.  I  never  saw  a  chickadee  sit  still. 
They  have  to  be  hopping  or  pecking  or  dee-deeing 
all  the  time.  Are  you  going  to  live  right  on  there  in 
the  old  house?  You  ought  to  have  somebody  with 


202  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

you — some  healthy  person  who'll  let  you  be  sick 
now  and  then." 

Clara  met  his  kindly  eyes  without  reproach. 
"Poor  mother!"  she  said.  "You  never  understood 
her — I  know  that.  I'm  going  to  take  two  of  the 
school  teachers  to  board.  They  come  next  week. 
Poor  things,  they  live  around  anywhere  now,  and 
hah*  starve.  You  need  good,  nourishing  food  when 
you're  teaching  school." 

"Why  the  missionaries  didn't  get  you,  I  don't 
know!"  laughed  the  Bird  House  Man.  "You'd 
have  so  enjoyed  teaching  hitherto  perfectly  con- 
tented Orientals  that  hot  rice  is  bad  for  the  stomach." 

"Now  you  are  laughing  at  me,  and  I'm  going  to 
Minnie's,"  she  smiled. 

"Oh,  child,  child,  it's  for  your  ain  bairn  ye  should 
be  makin'  the  wee  clothes,"  Alec  said  softly,  touching 
his  big  hand  affectionately  to  her  shoulder. 

He  felt  her  shiver  under  the  touch,  and  she  hastily 
averted  her  face.  He  said  no  more,  but  let  her 
depart.  It  seemed  to  him  she  walked  more  slowly, 
as  he  watched  her  from  the  door,  and  certainly  she 
was  no  longer  singing  under  her  breath. 

Yet  he  was  more  surprised  than  anybody  else  in 
Southmead  to  hear,  a  few  months  later,  when  the 
snow  was  on  the  ground  and  Clara  went  about  in  a 
gray  and  black  fur  coat  through  the  storms,  looking 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  203 

more  than  ever  like  a  dauntless  chickadee,  that  she 
was  going  to  be  married.  She  was  going  to  marry 
Billie  Chapman,  but  just  now  come  into  the  pro- 
prietorship of  J.  C.  Chapman's  grocery  and  feed 
store,  a  local  institution  established  by  his  grand- 
father and  now  passed  on  to  him  by  his  father,  who 
was  getting  old.  Billie  was  nearly  forty.  That  he 
had  long  admired  Clara  was  no  secret.  That  he 
had  been  somewhat  backward  as  a  wooer  in  the 
past,  due  to  the  prospect  of  Mrs.  Roberts  as  a 
possible  mother-in-law,  was  no  secret,  either.  Those 
who  knew  him  best  had  sometimes  taunted  him  with 
it,  whereat  his  round  face,  behind  the  counter  where 
the  Blackstones  and  the  cut  plug  reposed,  would 
grow  very  red,  and  he  would  stammer  in  his  wrath. 
Billie  Chapman  was  a  good  soul,  who  accepted  his 
politics  and  his  religion  from  his  father  as  readily 
as  he  accepted  the  store.  He  had  always  been  shy 
with  women,  and  he  loved  to  go  fishing — it  was  his 
one  pastime.  The  conjunction  of  those  two  traits  is 
deliberately  made,  and  indicates  to  the  wise  reader 
something  the  kind  of  a  man  he  was.  He  was  a 
man  destined  to  be  a  bachelor  unless  the  right  wo- 
man came  along  with  the  motherly  instinct  and  the 
tact  to  convert  him  into  a  lover  first  and  a  good 
husband  and  kind  father  later. 

Now,  Clara  undoubtedly  had  tact,  and  she  bubbled 


204,  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

over  with  motherly  instincts.  Alec  understood  that. 
But  she  had  once  loved  Don  Barker,  and  instinc- 
tively the  Bird  House  Man  felt  that  hers  was  not  a 
nature  to  forget.  Under  her  cheery,  buoyant  ex- 
terior, he  knew  fires  smouldered.  And  he  wondered 
at  the  news,  while  all  the  rest  declared  how  fine  a 
match  it  was  for  both  of  them. 

Even  Miss  Millie  rejoiced. 

"There,  you  see,"  she  declared.  "Clara  didn't 
break  her  heart  over  that  Don  Barker,  and  I'm  glad 
of  it,  too.  He  had  no  business  to  go  away  and  leave 
her.  She's  got  a  better  man,  7  say,  who'll  make  her 
a  good  home,  and  she  can — she  can " 

"She  can  make  baby  things  for  home  consump- 
tion," Alec  prompted,  his  eyes  twinkling  into  Millie's, 
who  hastily  replied,  "Exactly." 

"Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  added.  "Who 
can  say?  At  any  rate,  she  deserves  a  home  of  her 
own,  with  a  good,  sound,  healthy  male  in  it,  to 
fetch  and  carry  and  put  a  hassock  under  her  feet. 
But  she  won't  let  him,  alas!  She'll  go  running  after 
that  big  loony's  carpet  slippers  the  minute  he  sets 
foot  in  the  house." 

"And  quite  right,  too,"  said  Miss  Millie,  with  spirit. 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  dispute  you,"  Alec  laughed, 
"though  that's  a  funny  speech  from  a  feminist." 

"I'm  not  a  feminist,"  Miss  Millie  declared.     "I 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  205 

only  believe  in  votes  for  women,  not — not  cigarettes 
and  latch-keys  and — and  things." 

She  called  to  Siegfried  and  departed,  pursued  by 
Alec's  laughter. 

The  next  time  Clara  Roberts  passed  the  Bird 
House  Alec  ran  out  and  invited  her  in  for  tea.  It 
was  a  cold  winter  afternoon,  and  a  huge  fire  was 
wallowing  up  the  chimney  of  his  study.  Out  be- 
yond the  dining-room,  in  his  little  aviary,  the  clarino 
was  singing,  flooding  the  house  at  intervals  with  his 
rich  notes.  In  one  of  the  study  windows  a  glass 
box  was  so  adjusted  that  the  birds  could  come  from 
outside  far  enough  into  the  room  to  permit  you  to 
sit  in  an  easy  chair  and  observe  them.  The  box 
held  just  now  a  steady  procession  of  chickadees  and 
nuthatches,  with  now  and  then  a  sparrow  and  a 
golden-crowned  kinglet,  coming  after  the  suet  and 
sunflower  seeds  which  the  box  contained.  Alec 
took  the  woman's  fur  coat,  sat  her  down  in  a  big 
chair,  hung  his  old  black  kettle  on  the  crane  and 
swung  it  in  over  the  flames. 

"None  of  your  dirty  alcohol  lamps  for  me,"  he 
said.  "Tea  should  always  have  a  taste  of  smoke  in 
it.  Well,  Clara,  so  you're  going  to  be  married? 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"But  there's  nothing  to  tell,"  she  answered.  "I'm 
going  to  be  married,  and — and  there  you  are!" 


206  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"How  frightfully  unromantic!"  Alec  groaned. 
"Were  there  at  least  no  circumstances  attendant 
to  the  proposal  the  narration  of  which  would  gladden 
my  dull  afternoon?" 

Clara's  face,  lit  by  the  glow  of  the  fire,  was  soft 
with  a  smile.  "Poor  Billie,"  she  said,  "poor  Billie! 
He  was  a — a  little  clumsy,  Uncle  Alec.  He  didn't 
know  how  to  excuse  himself  for  not  asking  me  before 
mother  died,  and  he  didn't  know  enough  not  to 
try.  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him." 

"Was  that  why  you  took  him?" 

The  girl  met  his  gaze  quite  frankly  for  a  second, 
and  then  looked  back  at  the  fire.  "Partly,  per- 
haps," she  replied,  after  a  pause.  "Billie  Chapman 
is  a  good  man.  I  have  known  that  he  loved  me  for 
many  years.  He  asked  me  to  marry  him  when  I 
was  twenty,  before  father  died.  He — he  asked  me 
that  time  at  a  Sunday-school  picnic.  He  had  just 
eaten  a  doughnut,  and  there  was  a  crumb  on  his 
chin.  I  remember  how  big  it  looked!  It  was  all  I 
could  see.  I — I  was  astonished  and  scared  by  his 
asking  me.  Nobody  had  ever  asked  me  such  a 
question  before." 

She  broke  off,  still  looking  into  the  fire. 

"That  was  eight  years  ago,"  she  went  on,  after  a 
moment.  "He  has  been  kind  and  faithful  ever 
since.  He  has  been  very  kind."  She  smiled  again 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  207 

to  herself.  "I  think  he  might  even  have  asked  me 
once  more  while  mother  was  alive,  if  I'd — I'd  given 
him  the  proper  encouragement,"  she  added. 

"You  gave  him  no  encouragement?" 

"My  first  duty  was  to  mother,"  she  answered. 
"A  wife's  first  duty  is  to  her  husband." 

Alec  refrained  heroically  from  saying  that  a 
mother's  first  duty  is  to  her  child.  What  he  did  say 
was  quite  different.  In  fact,  he  had  not  intended 
to  say  it  at  all,  but  found  that  his  lips  had  spoken 
as  if  independent  of  his  will. 

"Does  Don  know  that  your  mother  is  dead?" 
was  what  he  said. 

He  saw  Clara's  face  go  white  as  death,  in  spite 
of  the  firelight,  and  her  hand  go  to  her  bosom.  She 
turned  startled,  pleading  eyes  upon  him  for  a  second, 
as  if  begging  for  mercy,  before  she  could  control 
herself.  She  did  not  speak  for  a  long  moment,  and 
the  man  wished  that  he  had  not  asked  the  question. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  finally  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  What  difference  does  it  make?  That  is  all  over." 

Alec  laid  his  hand  on  hers  an  instant.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  ask,"  he  said.  "The  words  popped  out 
before  I  could  catch  them.  They  popped  out  be- 
cause my  heart  was  asking  the  question,  I  suppose. 
Forgive  me." 

She  gave  his  fingers  a  little  squeeze.     "That's  all 


208  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

right,"  she  said.  Then  she  rose  quickly,  took  off 
the  kettle,  and  began  to  make  tea.  When  she  again 
faced  Alec,  with  his  cup  in  her  hand,  her  face  was 
smiling  once  more. 

"There  are  three  lumps  in  it,"  she  laughed,  "which 
is  all  that  is  good  for  you,  you  old  sweet  tooth." 

The  next  day  Alec  Farnum  went  to  New  York. 

Don  Barker  was  an  engineer  for  a  big  construction 
company.  He  had  left  Southmead  as  a  youth,  to 
earn  his  way  through  the  Massachusetts  Institute 
of  Technology,  and  at  twenty-three  had  been  em- 
ployed in  Peru.  After  two  years  in  the  Andes  he 
had  come  back  to  Southmead  for  a  vacation  before 
going  with  the  New  York  firm.  It  was  then  he  had 
asked  Clara  Roberts  to  marry  him.  They  had  been 
boy-and-girl  sweethearts,  however.  Don  Barker 
was  the  type  of  man  who  would  not  forget  his  first 
love,  just  as  he  did  not  forget  his  boyhood  purpose 
to  be  an  engineer,  which  had  filled  his  mind  even 
when  he  was  but  thirteen  and  built  a  ram  in  the 
brook  to  pump  water  into  his  father's  barn.  Yet  he 
had  forsaken  Clara  four  years  ago,  upon  her  refusal 
to  leave  her  mother,  and  the  Bird  House  Man  knew 
that  the  girl  had  not  heard  from  him  since.  He 
wondered  what  had  happened  between  them,  more 
than  appeared  on  the  surface. 

He  did  not  find  Don  in  his  office.     They  told  him 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  209 

Mr.  Barker  was  out  on  some  subway  work.  It  was 
not  till  the  second  day  that  the  two  met  at  dinner. 

"Well,  well,  this  is  nice!"  said  the  older  man.  "I 
began  to  think  I  was  never  going  to  see  you  again, 
since  you  won't  come  back  to  your  old  home.  In 
fact,  there's  a  strong  suspicion  in  Southmead  that 
you've  done  something  you're  ashamed  of — em- 
bezzled, or  raised  a  family  or  a  beard." 

The  young  man,  who  was  lean  and  hard  still, 
with  his  Yankee  origin  stamped  on  his  face,  laughed. 
"Nothing  so  bad  as  any  of  those  things,  Mr.  Far- 
num,"  he  said.  "But  I've  been  working  pretty  hard, 
and  spending  what  vacations  I've  had  out  West, 
looking  over  some  of  the  big  new  reclamation  dams. 
I'd  like  to  see  Southmead  again,  too — but  the — the 
chance  doesn't  seem  to  come.  How  is  everybody 
there?" 

"Oh,  we're  all  pretty  well.  Ruth  Barnes  is 
married,  and  Millie  Tilton's  got  a  house  of  her  own 
right  next  to  mine,  and  has  joined  the  suffragettes, 
and  they've  got  a  new  set  of  hymn  books  in  the 
Congregational  Church,  and  our  new  sawbones, 
Tommy  Trask  (I  guess  you  didn't  know  him,  did  you  ?) , 
has  rescued  Margaret  Weir  from  that  Bleak  House 
where  she  lived  like  a  hermit,  and — by  the  way,  are 
you  married?" 

"I?"    The  young  man  looked  at  him  quickly  and 


210  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

turned  away.  "No,  none  of  that  for  me!"  he  added, 
a  trifle  brusquely. 

Alec's  eyes  were  watching  his  companion  sharply, 
but  he  continued  speaking  in  the  same  jovial  bass. 
"  Well,  it's  astonishing  how  we  are  all  getting  married 
off  in  Southmead,"  he  went  on.  "Lack  of  any  other 
occupation,  I  suppose.  I'm  even  getting  rather 
shaky  myself.  I  don't  know  when  it's  going  to 
hit  me.  Who  do  you  think  is  the  latest  to  get 
engaged?" 

"You  tell  me,"  said  Don. 

"William  Chapman!"  cried  Alec.  "Yes,  sir, 
bashful  Bill!" 

He  watched  the  effect  of  his  words,  suspecting 
that  Don  knew  of  the  shy  grocer's  attachment  for 
Clara.  The  young  man's  face  betrayed  the  thought 
which  startled  him.  "Who — whom  is  Bill  going  to 
marry?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  controlled  with  some 
effort. 

Alec's  own  voice  changed  to  a  tone  of  gentleness. 
"The  date  has  not  been  set  yet,"  he  said.  "It  will 
not  be  till  summer,  I  suspect.  Since  her  mother  died 
last  August,  his  fiancee  has  been  taking  some  teachers 
to  board,  and  her  conscience  would  compel  her  to 
keep  'em  the  full  year." 

"You  mean  it's— it's " 

"Yes,  Don,  it's  Clara,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  211 

The  other  turned  away  his  head.  "Bill  Chap- 
man!" he  half  whispered. 

Alec  lit  a  cigar.  "Let's  go  up  into  a  corner  of 
the  club  library  where  it's  quiet,"  he  said. 

"I — I've  got  an  engagement,"  Don  mumbled. 

"Yes,  with  me,  upstairs.     Come  along." 

The  young  man  followed  him  in  silence. 

"Now,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,"  Alec 
continued,  when  they  were  seated  again.  "Clara 
loves  you  still.  I  stumbled  on  the  truth  without 
meaning  to.  I  know  nothing  of  what  has  hap- 
pened between  you  two  in  the  past.  I  only  know 
she  loves  you  still.  I  came  to  New  York  to  give  you 
this  bit  of  information,  if  you  were  still  free  to  re- 
ceive it,  as  I  gather  you  are.  What  you  do  with  it, 
of  course,  is  another  matter." 

The  young  engineer  blew  a  nervous  cloud  of  smoke. 
"You'll  pardon  me  if  I  say  your  words  sound  like  a 
curious  contradiction,"  he  said.  "Clara  is  going 
to  marry  Bill  Chapman,  and  Clara  loves  me — I 
don't  get  it,  that's  all." 

"My  dear  boy,  it  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  hi 
the  history  of  the  human  heart  such  a  thing  has 
happened.  During  all  these  years — four,  is  it,  or 
five — since  you  left  her,  Clara  has  nursed  that  selfish 
old  mother  like  a  slave  of  conscience,  and  filled  the 
void  in  her  heart  by  also  nursing  all  the  other  women's 


212  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

babies  in  town.  Now  her  mother  has  died.  She  is 
free — and  the  freedom  hurts  her  more  than  the 
slavery.  Something  in  her  cries  out  for  babies  of  her 
own.  She's  that  kind  of  a  woman,  God  bless  her! 
Bill  has  loved  her  for  a  long  time  with  his  stupid, 
shy  devotion.  She  pities  him,  she — oh,  but  can't 
you  understand?  It's  a  complex  of  many  emotions. 
/  can  understand  it  plain  enough.  She's  going  to 
brick  up  a  certain  corner  of  her  heart,  and  try  to 
get  some  joy  out  of  what  is  left." 

Don  was  staring  straight  ahead  with  unwinking 
eyes.  "I — I  think  I  could  see  the  tragedy  of  it, 
if  I — if — well,  I'm  rather  concerned  hi  it  myself," 
he  said.  "You  see,  I — I  still  love  her,  too!" 

He  blurted  this  last  out,  as  if  it  choked  him. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Alec  quietly.  "Tell 
me  what  happened  five  years  ago." 

The  young  man  paused  for  some  time  before 
replying.  "It's  a  hard  thing  to  explain,"  he  said 
finally.  "If  Clara  had  demanded  that  I  stay  in 
Southmead  because  her  mother  wouldn't  leave  it, 
if  she'd  said,  'You  must  choose  between  me  and  your 
career,'  like  a  character  in  a  magazine  story,  it  would 
be  easy  enough  to  explain.  Of  course  a  man  does 
always  choose  his  career,  unless  he's  a  fool.  But 
she  didn't  say  anything  like  that." 

"She  wouldn't,"  Alec  put  in. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  213 

"No,  she  just  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  crooked 
smile — or  I  can  see  now  it  was  crooked,  I  thought 
she  was  damn  cheerful  that  day! — and  said,  'I've 
talked  it  over  with  mother,  all  over  again  and  again, 
and  she  can't  leave  her  old  home  here.  It  would 
kill  her.  So  we  must  say  good-bye.  You  have 
your  work  in  the  world,  I  have  mine.'  That's 
word  for  word  what  she  said.  I  can  hear  her  still. 
Now,  I'm  no  idol  smasher  as  a  rule,  but  I  just  reared 
up  then  and  said  a  few  things  about  parents  and 
children  and  the  New  England  conscience,  and  I 
don't  know  what  all,  and  I  ended  by  saying  that  if 
she  loved  me  her  first  duty  was  to  me  and  herself, 
to  us,  I  said,  and  if  she  didn't  see  it  that  way,  why, 
she  didn't  really  love  me  and  I'd  get  out  and  not 
bother  her  again.  She  just  smiled  some  more  when 
I  said  that,  and  told  me  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said, 
and  I  said,  'Don't  I?'  and  walked  out,  and  I  never 
went  back  when  I  heard  her  call  my  name,  and  I've 
never  seen  her  nor  Southmead  since.  Now,  call  me  a 
stubborn,  pig-headed  Yankee  if  you  want  to,  but 
those  are  the  facts." 

"You  are  a  stubborn,  pig-headed  Yankee,"  said 
Alec.  "Moreover,  you  are  cruel  into  the  bargain." 

"Stubborn  people  always  are,"  said  Don.  "I 
know  that.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  about 
it?" 


214  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"That  is  entirely  for  you  to  say.  I  don't  want  you 
to  do  anything  that  your  heart  doesn't  dictate. 
I'm  merely  telling  you  that  Clara  is  trying  to  wall 
up  a  corner  of  her  heart,  and  when  she  thinks  she 
has  the  memories  all  buried,  she'll  set  a  day  to  marry 
Bill  Chapman.  Incidentally,  I  have  a  spare  room 
in  my  house,  and  the  train  to  Southmead  leaves  the 
Grand  Central  at  three  twenty-five." 

The  young  engineer  rose  from  his  chair,  and  threw 
his  cigar  into  the  fireplace.  "Good-night,"  he  said, 
putting  out  his  hand.  "Forgive  me,  but  I've  got 
to  get  out  in  the  streets  and  walk.  I'll — I'll  wire 
you  something  when  I  know." 

"Good-night,  my  boy,"  said  Alec,  laying  a  great 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Remember,  it's  the  heart 
that  makes  for  happiness  in  this  world." 

The  Bird  House  Man  went  back  to  Southmead  the 
next  morning. 

He  heard  nothing  from  Don  for  three  days,  and 
then  a  laconic  wire  arrived,  which  read: 

"Coming  on  3:25  to-morrow. 

"D.  B." 

Alec  promptly  called  up  Clara  Roberts  on  the 
'phone  and  invited  her  to  his  house  the  next  even- 
ing. "Maybe  a  little  music,  or  something,"  he 
said. 

Don  arrived  in  time  for  a  late  dinner.    He  was 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  215 

almost  silent  during  the  meal,  and  curiously  ner- 
vous. 

"I'll — I'll  go  right  over  there  now,"  he  finally 
said,  when  Mrs.  Plumb  had  carried  the  coffee  into 
the  study.  "I — I  can't  wait.  If  what  you  say  is 
true — but  I  can't  believe  it — I  must  find  out  for 
myself.  If  it  is " 

He  broke  off,  his  face  tense.  Alec  could  sense  the 
struggle  he  had  been  through,  the  longing  tugging  at 
his  heart,  the  wounded  pride  goading  his  stubborn 
will,  the  Yankee  aversion  to  giving  in  even  when 
in  the  wrong,  perhaps  especially  when  in  the  wrong. 

"There  is  no  need,"  the  Bird  House  Man  said 
quietly.  "She  will  be  here  in  a  few  moments." 

"Does  she  know?"  Don  cried. 

"Not  a  hint.  She  thinks  it's  a  musicale,"  Alec 
chuckled. 

They  finished  their  coffee,  again  in  silence,  and 
then  the  Bird  House  Man  led  his  guest  into  the  next 
room.  A  moment  later  the  bell  rang.  He  an- 
swered it  himself,  and  ushered  Clara  into  the  study. 
She  warmed  her  hands  before  the  blaze. 

"You  always  have  the  nicest  fires,"  she  exclaimed. 
"But  where  are  the  rest?  Who's  going  to  make  the 
music?  You  don't  expect  me  to?  " 

"Part  of  it,"  the  Bird  House  Man  smiled.  "It's 
to  be  a  duet." 


216  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

He  had  moved  toward  the  door  of  the  back  room 
as  he  spoke,  and  now  he  crossed  the  threshold. 
Clara,  her  hands  still  toward  the  blaze,  waited  for 
him  to  return.  A  second  later  she  heard  the  door 
shut,  and  looked  up  to  smile  once  more  at  her 
host. 

Instead  of  smiling,  her  face  went  deathly  white, 
her  two  hands  went  up  to  her  bosom  convulsively, 
and  she  stood  as  if  transfixed. 

Don  Barker  was  standing  there  by  the  door, 
which  had  been  closed  behind  him,  his  eyes  upon 
her,  his  lips  apparently  trying  to  form  words  which 
did  not  come.  Then  he  took  a  sudden  step  toward 
her. 

"Don!"  she  whispered,  drawing  back.  "Don! 
Is  it  you?" 

Still  he  did  not  speak,  but  drawing  still  nearer  he 
held  out  his  arms. 

She  put  forth  one  hand  to  repel  him.  "No,  no!" 
she  said,  again  in  a  whisper. 

"Clara" — the  words  were  broken,  as  if  forced  out 
of  him — "Clara,  forgive  me!  I  can  say  nothing 
now  but  I  love  you!" 

"No,  no,  no,  no!"  she  whispered,  over  and  over. 

She  had  retreated  against  Alec's  desk,  and  could 
go  no  farther.  The  arms  yearned  toward  her  very 
close  now.  She  looked  into  the  face  she  knew  so 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  217 

well,  and  saw  lines  there  she  did  not  know,  lines  that 
had  come  with  the  years — and  she  saw  longing  there 
and  love.  Her  hand  was  now  against  his  breast, 
still  pushing  him  away,  but  he  seized  it  with  one  of 
his  and  put  it  to  his  lips,  and  then  she  resisted  no 
more.  With  a  low  cry  she  let  herself  fall  forward 
into  his  embrace,  and  gave  her  mouth  to  his. 

Thus  they  stood,  they  knew  not  how  long,  their 
eyes  closed,  in  the  ecstasy  of  their  reunion.  But 
presently  the  woman  put  up  her  hands  again  and 
pushed  him  gently  from  her,  taking  his  face  between 
her  palms  and  looking  long  into  his  eyes.  Then  she 
suddenly  sank  down  in  a  chair  and  buried  her  own 
face  in  her  hands,  her  body  shaking. 

He  dropped  on  the  floor  beside  her. 

"What  is  it,  what  is  it?"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  Don,  you  have  come  too  late!"  she  moaned. 
"You  have  broken  your  pride  too  late!  It  was 
easier  to  break  my  heart  and  yours  than  to  break 
your  pride,  wasn't  it?  Oh,  why  have  you  come  at 
all,  now?" 

"I  have  come  in  time!"  he  cried.  "Thank  God, 
I  have  come  in  time!  You  love  me  still,  and  I 
love  you.  Don't  reproach  me  for  my  stubbornness, 
my  foolishness,  till  to-morrow.  Kiss  me  to-night." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  tried  to  take  his  arm  from 
about  her  waist.  "You  have  come  too  late,"  she 


218  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

said  again.     "Hasn't  Mr.  Alec  told  you?    I'm  en- 
gaged to  be  married." 

"He  told  me,  yes — and  to  whom/'  said  Don. 
"But  you  can't  marry  him  now.  You  love  me.  I 
don't  care  whether  you  forgive  me  for  how  I've 
acted,  so  long  as  you  marry  me.  Dearest,  I've  got 
to  have  you!" 

He  laid  his  lips  on  her  neck,  for  her  face  was 
turned  from  him. 

"No,  no,  no!  You  mustn't,  you  shan't!"  she 
cried  again,  trying  to  draw  away.  "I  am  engaged 
to  another  man.  I  am  honour  bound  to  another 
man.  You  have  come  too  late ! ' ' 

Don  rose  to  his  feet,  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 
"Do  you  love  me?"  he  demanded.  "Never  mind 
what  I've  done,  and  the  reasons  you  have  for  think- 
ing all  manner  of  ill  of  me.  But  do  you  love  me?  " 

Her  only  answer  was  a  moan. 

"Do  you  love  the  other  man?  Really  love  him, 
in — in — in  the  way  we  kissed  just  now?" 

She  shrank  down  into  the  chair.  "Don't,  don't!" 
she  cried. 

"Then,  by  God,  you  shan't  marry  him,  and  you 
shall  marry  me ! "  Don  exclaimed.  "  Your  conscience 
may  have  made  a  slave  of  you,  but  it  shan't  make 
something  worse!  Look  at  me!" 

As  if  she  could  not  help  it,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  219 

"I've  given  up  my  stubbornness,"  he  said,  "or 
my  pride,  or  whatever  it  is.  Raw  egotism,  perhaps. 
I've  come  to  you  because  I  love  and  long  for  you 
still,  and  I'll  do  any  penance  you  ask.  We've  spoiled 
our  lives  enough,  you  and  I.  We  start  in  now  living 
for  ourselves,  do  you  hear,  just  our  two  selves !" 

"^s^eople  cari't  .live  just  for  themselves,"  the  girl 
replied.  "Oh,  Don,  they  can't.  They'd  never 
really  be  happy  if  they  did.  I've  given  my  word! 
He — he  loves  me.  He'd  suffer  so.  And  I've  given 
my  word!" 

The  man  bit  his  lip  a  second.  "Will  you  leave  it 
to  Mr.  Farnum  to  judge?"  he  said.  "I've  told 
him  my  story.  You  told  him  yours,  whether  you 
meant  to  or  not.  He  came  to  New  York  just  to 
let  me  know  you  still  loved  me.  Will  you  let  him 
decide?" 

"He  went  to  New  York  to  tell  you?"  she  whis- 
pered. "Mr.  Alec  did  that,  when  he  knew  about 
Billie?" 

"Yes,  just  that,"  said  Don.  "You  trust  him. 
Will  you  let  him  judge?  " 

He  dropped  again  on  his  knees  before  her  and 
suddenly  kissed  her  eyes  as  he  had  done  long  years 
before.  Her  lips  parted  as  her  eyes  closed,  her 
bosom  heaved,  and  her  hands  clasped  his  shoulders 
instinctively. 


220  THE  BIKD  HOUSE  MAN 

"I — I — oh,  Don,  you  mustn't  tempt  me,  you 
mustn't  kiss  me  that  way,  you  mustn't!" 

"May  I  call  him?"  he  asked,  again  kissing  her 
lips. 

She  tried  to  say  no,  but  she  couldn't.  She  could 
only  nod  yes  with  her  head.  Don  sprang  to  the 
door  and  called. 

The  Bird  House  Man  had  evidently  been  in  the 
kitchen,  talking  to  Mrs.  Plumb.  He  came  quickly 
at  the  call,  and  stood  near  the  door,  looking  silent 
inquiry  at  the  pair  before  him.  The  young  man 
spoke  first. 

"We  love  each  other  still,  Clara  and  I,"  he  said. 
"  Clara  does  not  love  the  man  she  is  engaged  to,  but 
me.  But  there  seems  to  be  another — there  seems 
to  be  a  case  of  conscience  involved.  We  wish  you 
to  be  the  judge.  Clara  has  given  her  word  to  marry 
this  other  man,  and  says  she  cannot  break  it.  My 
point  is  that  the  sin  of  a  loveless  marriage  is  greater 
still — that  it  is  better  to  break  her  word  than  my 
heart,  and  hers,  too — for  she  will  break  her  heart. 
She  will  think  of  me  all  her  lif e  now  in — in  the  night 
watches." 

There  came  a  little  moan  from  the  girl. 

Alec  moved  closer  to  her,  and  laid  his  fingers 
lightly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Look  up  at  me,"  he  said. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  221 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  her  eyes  filled  with  a 
great  unhappiness. 

"Clara,"  he  continued,  "a  promise  of  marriage  is 
a  pledge  not  lightly  to  be  broken.  Only  a  light 
woman  would  do  so,  and  you  are  not  that.  But  a 
promise  of  marriage  given  when  the  heart  cannot  be 
given  with  it  can  be  a  wicked  thing.  The  only  way 
to  atone  for  that  sin  is  to  undo  the  evil,  to  break 
the  pledge,  before  it  is  too  late." 

"You  mean — you  mean,  that  I  was  wicked,  to 
promise  to  marry  poor  Billie?"  she  whispered,  in- 
credulous. 

"I  leave  it  to  your  conscience  to  answer,"  Alec 
declared.  "You  know  best  whether  you  loved  him 
when  you  promised.  You  know  best  whether  you 
had  forgotten  Don,  whether  it  was  Billie  your  soul 
hungered  for — as  the  father  of  your  children." 

He  spoke  slowly,  quietly,  solemnly,  his  hand  still 
resting  lightly  on  her  shoulder.  He  felt  her  shiver 
under  his  touch,  as  she  buried  her  face  once  more  in 
her  hands. 

"But  Billie,"  she  said,  in  a  smothered  voice,  "it 
will  break  his  heart,  perhaps,  and  it  is  so  wicked  not 
to  keep  a  promise.  That  is  telling  a  lie!" 

"One  heart  has  got  to  be  broken,  anyway — so  far 
as  hearts  ever  are  broken,"  the  Bird  House  Man  re- 
plied. "Yours  will  not  be,  should  you  give  Don  up 


222  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

again,  Clara,  for  you  take  a  kind  of  Calvinistic  joy 
in  sacrifice,  which  is  a  strange  form  of  virtuous  sin, 
or  sinful  virtue,  possibly  peculiar  to  New  England. 
But  I  say  it  is  wicked  to  keep  a  promise  when  it  is 
the  promise  of  something  the  man  by  every  right 
expects,  and  you  cannot  really  give." 

"Oh,  this  is  so "  Don  began,  but  the  Bird 

House  Man  raised  his  hand  in  a  command  for  si- 
lence, and  bent  his  face  again  toward  the  girl. 

She  looked  up  at  him  once  more,  by  an  evident 
effort  refraining  from  looking  toward  her  lover. 

"But  if  I — I  break  my  word  to  Billie,"  she  said, 
"how  will  I  ever  be  sure  it  was  not  really  for  my  sel- 
fish happiness?  It's  what  I  want  to  do.  Oh,  Mr. 
Alec,  you  can  never  know,  nobody  can  ever  know, 
how  terribly  I  want  to  do  it!  When  we  want  to  do 
things  so  badly,  they  are  usually  selfish  and — and 
wrong.'* 

Don  almost  writhed  in  his  effort  to  keep  from 
speech,  but  the  older  man  still  spoke  quietly  and 
gently. 

"True  happiness  comes  from  wanting  very  hard 
to  do  the  things  which  are  right,"  he  said,  "and  some- 
times being  able  to  do  them.  One  of  the  things  which 
is  eternally  right  hi  this  world  is  to  mate  with  some 
one  whom  your  heart  and  soul  desire,  and  be  the  mother 
of  his  children.  If  it  is  right  to  love  babies — and 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  223 

you  think  it  is,  don't  you,  Clara? — it  is  right  to 
want  the  father  your  heart  desires  for  your  own 
babies,  and  a  sin,  yes,  a  grave  and  bitter  sin,  to 
take  any  other  father  for  them.  Poor  little  wisps  of 
helplessness,  to  be  moulded  into  minds  and  souls 
by  every  breath  of  environment,  can  they  who  are 
born  of  a  reluctant  marriage  bed  be  the  same  as 
those  who  are  born  of  perfect  love?  Clara,  my  dear, 
don't  let  a  split  hair  of  conscience  stand  in  the  way 
of  one  of  the  great  verities  of  life!" 

The  girl  had  sat  with  her  head  in  her  hands  while 
he  spoke,  and  so  she  remained  for  a  long  moment 
after.  Then  she  uncovered  her  face  and  raised  it, 
her  cheeks  flushed,  and  looked  first  at  Alec,  and  then 
slowly,  almost  timidly,  at  her  lover,  who  stood 
silent  and  pleading  before  her,  as  if  holding  his 
breath,  with  arms  just  lifting  to  stretch  toward 
her. 

"Don,"  she  breathed.  "Don,  I  cannot  let  it  be 
any  one  but  you ! " 

Then  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  once  more, 
and  her  lover  fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  took  the 
hands  gently  down,  and  laid  her  cheek  to  his,  while 
Alec  smiled  upon  them  both. 

"I  think  that  duet  has  been  sung  after  all,"  he 
said  presently.  "Or  is  it  just  begun?" 

Clara  Roberts  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  she 


224  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

had  looked  up  from  the  fire,  and  seen  her  lover  in 
the  room.  She  smiled  her  old,  cheerful,  brave  smile. 
"It  has  just  begun,"  she  answered. 

"That's  my  chickadee  again!"  cried  Alec.  "All 
the  song  you  need  is  in  three  notes.  *I  love  you,' 
is  what  it  says." 

He  whistled  softly  the  bird's  call. 

fi**r 


"You  must  teach  it  to  him,  too,"  said  Clara. 
"It  shall  always  be  our  signal,  Don,  yours  and  mine 
— and  Mr.  Alec's." 

"Whatever  we  have  shall  be  Mr.  Alec's,  too,  you 
bet!"  cried  her  lover,  springing  up  and  catching  the 
Bird  House  Man  by  the  hand. 

"No,  sir,"  cried  Alec,  "I  won't  have  Clara's  con- 
science!" 

"God  bless  her  for  it,  I  say,"  Don  answered  ten- 
derly and  humbly,  going  again  to  her  side  and  put- 
ting an  arm  around  her  shoulder.  "It  means  depths 
of  loyalty  we  men  know  very  little  about." 

"You  are  on  the  road  to  wisdom,  young  man," 
laughed  Alec,  rubbing  his  hands  delightedly.  "Isn't 
he,  Clara?" 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling  now,  her  face  almost 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  225 

transformed  by  happiness.  She  took  Don's  hand 
in  hers  and  patted  it.  "There  are  lots  of  things  you 
men  know  very  little  about,"  she  said.  "That's 
why  we  women  have  such  a  hard  time." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  GOLDFINCH 

WHEN  Southmead  heard  that  the  Smith  house 
had  been  rented  for  the  summer  to  a  teacher  of 
eurhythmic  dancing  there  wa3  great  excitement 
and  much  rushing  to  the  public  library  for  informa- 
tion as  to  the  significance  of  "eurhythmic."  To  be 
sure,  little  was  learned  at  the  library.  Alec  Far- 
num  suggested  that  the  word  probably  came  from 
Plato,  but  Miss  Millie  Tilton  said  she  was  sure  Plato 
never  danced.  The  teacher's  name  was  Flora  Dale 
Johnson,  which  Alec  said  was  almost  as  fine  an 
anticlimax  as  "For  God,  for  country,  and  for  Yale." 
She  had  hit  upon  Southmead,  it  seemed,  because  the 
place  was  so  quiet  and  not  yet  invaded  by  summer 
boarders.  Joe  Toms,  the  real  estate  man  who  had 
conducted  the  transaction,  confessed  as  much  when 
the  fact  of  her  coming  was  known.  He  also  con- 
fessed that  Flora  Dale  Johnson  herself  was  "some 
swell  dame"  (Joe  wasn't  a  native  of  Southmead, 
and  used  vulgar  expressions).  The  Smith  house, 
which  stood  in  a  grove  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  of  the 
village,  was  a  big  square  house  with  a  cupola,  once 

226 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  227 

the  residence  of  a  well-to-do  family  who  had  all  died 
out  or  moved  away.  In  recent  years  somebody  had 
altered  it  over  for  a  summer  boarding-house,  but 
the  venture  had  failed. 

"The  dame  gave  it  the  once  over,  and  then  made 
for  the  grove,"  said  Joe.  "She  seemed  more  inter- 
ested in  that.  Said  it  was  an  ideal  spot  for  a  daffy 
dance " 

"A  what?  "  asked  Alec,  who  was  listening. 

"Well,  something  like  that,"  said  Joe.  "Guess  it 
will  be  daffy,  all  right.  She  said  the  ground  was 
nice  and  smooth,  and  wouldn't  hurt  her  girls'  bare 
feet." 

With  this  parting  bomb  shell  he  left  the  post  office, 
while  all  of  his  auditors  gasped,  except  Alec  Farnum 
who  was  chuckling.  It  had  just  occurred  to  him 
that  "daffy"  was  Daphne. 

Coincident  with  Joe's  disclosure  that  the  pupils 
were  to  dance  barefoot,  came  Mrs.  Alvin  Sanborn's 
discovery  in  a  magazine  of  a  picture  showing 
eurhythmic  dancers  in  action.  To  be  sure,  the 
picture  was  taken  in  Germany,  but  there  was  the 
word  eurhythmic,  large  as  life.  Mrs.  Sanborn  took 
one  horrified  look  at  the  picture,  and  then  another, 
and  then  a  third — and  then  she  showed  it  to  Miss 
Jones,  the  librarian.  After  that,  the  fat  was  in  the 
fire.  Everybody  expected  the  worst.  Dr.  Tommy 


228  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Trask,  after  listening  to  various  conversations,  con- 
fided to  his  friend,  the  Bird  House  Man,  that  in  his 
opinion  most  of  the  male  inhabitants  hoped  for  the 
worst,  which  Alec  had  to  confess  was  probably  true. 
There  was  much  talk  of  preventing  the  scandal  to 
the  fair  name  of  Southmead,  and  the  matter  was 
agitatedly  taken  up  at  a  meeting  of  the  First  Parish 
Mothers'  Club.  But,  after  all,  as  several  shop- 
keepers pointed  out,  two-score  or  more  additional 
people  for  the  summer  was  a  boon  not  lightly  to  be 
cast  aside,  and  the  lease  was  signed,  and  the  house 
was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  village,  and  nobody 
really  knew  what  Miss  Flora  Dale  Johnson's  school 
was  like,  and  women  were  dancing  barefoot  every- 
where nowadays,  as  you  might  see  from  the  Sunday 
papers,  and  why  not  wait?  As  the  entire  village 
really  wanted  to  wait,  they  waited. 

Presently  Flora  Dale  Johnson  and  several  of  her 
pupils  arrived,  with  trunks  that  filled  two  wagons, 
and  with  half  a  dozen  maids  and  a  Japanese  cook. 

"Looks  ter  me  ez  if  they  wuz  contemplatin' 
wearin*  some  clo'es,"  remarked  Kib  Turner  who 
drove  the  depot  hack,  as  he  viewed  the  pile  of 
baggage.  "I  git  twenty -five  cents  apiece  fer  haulin* 
them  trunks.  On  with  the  dance,  is  my  motter." 

In  a  day  or  two  more  all  the  pupils  had  arrived, 
nearly  two-score  of  them,  "Of  assorted  shapes  and 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  229 

colours,'*  as  Tommy  Trask  put  it  to  the  Bird  House 
Man,  "and  ages,"  he  added.  There  were  young 
girls  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  laughing  and  lithe  and 
fashionably  clad,  there  were  somewhat  soberer  girls 
in  the  twenties,  somewhat  less  slender,  and  there 
were  even  one  or  two  women  perilously  close  to  Pier 
40,  who,  as  Tommy  said — he  had  no  reverence — cer- 
tainly needed  all  outdoors  to  dance  in.  The  Smith 
house  was  overrun  with  them  all.  There  were  six  or 
eight  servants  to  attend  to  their  needs.  Delivery 
wagons  from  the  village  were  kept  busy.  Two  pianos 
and  a  huge  phonograph  arrived.  Music  began  to  issue 
from  the  open  windows .  Laughter  resounded  through 
the  grove.  Groups  of  girls,  arm  in  arm  across  the  side- 
walk, came  down  to  the  drug-store  for  picture  post- 
cards and  candy,  and  Southmead  lined  up  in  front  of 
the  post  office  and  stared. 

Then  the  lessons  began,  and  Southmead  knew  the 
worst. 

"I  happened  to  be  going  by  this  morning,"  said 
Miss  Jones,  the  librarian,  to  her  friend  Mrs.  San- 
born,  "and  I  heard  music  in  the  grove,  so  I  just 
climbed  up  the  bank  and  looked  over  the  fence, 
and  what  do  you  think  I  saw?" 

"Barefoot,  I  suppose." 

"Barefoot!  My  dear,  it  didn't  stop  at  their  feet! 
They  had  on  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  but  Swiss 


230  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

ribbed  combinations  as — as  abbreviated  as  a  man's 
bathing  suit,  and  over  them  white  chiffon  gowns, 
Greek,  I  suppose  they  call  'em,  caught  up  above 
their  knees  with  an  elastic  band.  Their  arms  and 
shoulders  were  bare,  and  when  they  hopped  about 
you  could  see — oh,  my  dear,  you  have  no  idea  of  it!" 

"But  what  were  they  doing?"  asked  Mrs.  San- 
born,  her  eyes  reflecting  her  determination  to  have 
an  idea  of  it  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

"I  could  hardly  make  out  what  they  were  doing," 
said  Miss  Jones.  "There  was  a  phonograph  play- 
ing away  under  a  tree,  and  they  were  all  going 
through  motions  together,  with  their  arms  and  legs, 
in  time  to  the  music.  It  looked  very  silly  to  me. 
There  was  that  Flora  Dale  Johnson  female  among 
'em,  without  any  clothes  on  either,  and  I  could  hear 
her  saying  something  about  rhythm.  I  must  say 
she  has  pretty  arms." 

For  the  next  few  weeks  in  Southmead  woman's 
place  was  most  assuredly  not  the  home.  There 
was  a  farm  just  up  the  road  beyond  the  Smith  place 
which  did  a  sudden  and  unprecedented  business  in 
eggs.  All  the  women  in  town  suddenly  wanted 
eggs.  The  men  of  the  village  found  excuses  more 
difficult  (or  perhaps  one  had  better  say  explanations), 
but  most  of  them  contrived  to  get  up  the  Smith 
place  way  at  least  once  in  the  daylight.  In  the 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  231 

evening  the  road  thither  became  lovers'  lane,  though 
the  pupils  never  performed  out  of  doors  after  night- 
fall. By  day,  however,  they  danced  or  sat  around 
in  the  grove  in  their  chiffon  slips,  apparently  quite 
indifferent  to  the  line  of  spectators  over  the  fence, 
not  betraying  the  slightest  consciousness  that  they 
were  immodestly  clad.  Their  legs  soon  became  red 
with  mosquito  bites,  and  their  necks  and  arms  tanned 
with  the  sun.  One  of  the  pianos  was  placed  on  the 
side  veranda,  and  all  day  long  they  danced  on  the 
lawn  and  under  the  trees  as  if  it  were  the  most  nat- 
ural proceeding  in  the  world.  Some  of  them  went 
to  church  on  Sunday.  All  of  them  were  polite  to 
the  townsfolk,  behaved  with  perfect  decorum  on  the 
streets,  and  the  youngest  and  prettiest  of  the  pupils, 
when  some  of  the  village  youths  attempted  to  ad- 
dress them,  put  a  stop  to  such  advances  in  the  way 
that  only  nice  girls  can.  The  boys  left  them  alone 
after  that.  All  of  which  was  faintly  disappointing 
to  Mrs.  Sanborn. 

The  director  of  the  school  presently  invited  Alec 
and  Ruth  and  Rob  Eliot  and  one  or  two  more  who, 
acquaintance  had  shown  her  would  be  interested,  to 
a  nearer  view  of  the  dancing.  Alec  was  quizzically 
curious,  Ruth  still  inclined  to  be  a  little  shocked, 
and  Rob  frankly  enthusiastic.  By  this  time  some 
of  the  advanced  pupils  had  reached  the  stage  called 


232  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

plastic  expression.  They  "realized"  a  piece  of 
music,  and  expressed  by  their  dancing  the  mood  it 
evoked  in  them.  One  young  girl,  after  listening  to 
MacdowelPs  "To  a  Wild  Rose,"  announced  that  it 
made  her  think  of  clouds. 

"Then  express  clouds,"  cried  an  assistant  teacher. 
"A  cloud  is  a  little  boat  that  floats  and  floats  and 
floats  and  FLOATS,  till  it  meets  a  little  wind  that  blows 
it  higher  and  higher  and  higher,  until  it  is  nearly 
wrecked,  and  then  finally  it  reaches  a  safe  harbour 
on  the  sunset  horizon.  Now  express  that,  dearie." 

Alec  smiled,  but  Dearie  set  her  teeth  and  with  a 
look  of  painful  determination  proceeded  to  fall  in 
with  the  music,  and  floated  and  floated  and  floated 
and  FLOATED,  and  met  the  wicked  little  wind,  and 
endeavoured  to  be  blown  higher  and  higher  and 
higher,  till  the  shipwreck  was  almost  a  painful 
actuality.  Dearie  was  not  over  and  above  graceful, 
and  the  spectacle  was  a  little  ludicrous.  But  a 
moment  later  a  different  dance  was  staged.  A  tall, 
slender  girl,  her  hah*  done  up  tightly,  her  gown 
abbreviated  like  a  man's  tunic,  sprang  out  as  Apollo, 
and  pursued  a  girl  with  streaming  hair  as  Daphne. 
Daphne  for  some  time  eluded  her  pursuer,  and  when 
she  was  panting  and  almost  captured,  suddenly 
slipped  behind  a  tree,  as  if  she  had  been  changed  in 
form.  Then  Apollo  looked  about  bewildered,  and 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  233 

from  every  tree  appeared  the  form  of  a  maiden 
with  streaming  hair.  They  danced  about  him,  and 
ever,  as  he  tried  to  seize  one,  she  eluded  his  grasp 
and  vanished  behind  the  trunk.  In  the  grove  of 
big  oaks  and  chestnuts,  under  the  dappled  shadows, 
with  the  music  lilting  (a  compilation  from  Gluck), 
these  white  figures  moving  in  rhythm,  with  their 
tossing  bare  arms  and  then*  white  legs  and  streaming 
hair,  made  a  picture  of  great  loveliness.  Alec  waxed 
enthusiastic  and  declared  that  he  would  never  be 
happy  till  a  water  dance  had  been  staged  by  his  pond, 
and  even  Ruth  applauded. 

But  Ruth  had  noticed,  during  the  dance,  the 
face  of  a  spectator  over  the  fence,  and  now  called 
Alec's  attention  to  her.  It  was  Susan  Hall.  Susan 
was  a  smallish,  rather  colourless  young  woman  of 
indefinite  age — indefinite  because  she  had  not  been 
born  in  Southmead,  and  so  could  keep  her  secret. 
She  had  corn-coloured  hair  and  made  periodic  at- 
tempts to  dress  in  the  latest  fashion  which  always 
appeared  slightly  ludicrous  as  she  walked  to  church 
beside  her  sober  husband,  Tom  Hall,  who  was  prob- 
ably ten  years  older  than  she,  dressed  in  black,  and 
six  days  in  the  week  served  as  cashier  in  the  bank. 
On  the  seventh  day  he  was  the  superintendent  of  the 
Sabbath  School.  The  Halls  had  no  children. 

Flora  Dale  Johnson  followed  the  direction  of  her 


234  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

guests*  glances.  "Oh,  that  woman,"  she  said. 
"It's  a  funny  thing  about  her.  She  appeared  the 
second  week  we  were  here,  and  I  don't  believe  she's 
missed  a  day  since.  She  doesn't  seem  to  come  out  of 
idle  curiosity  like  the  rest.  I  think  she  really  loves 
the  dancing.  Yesterday  she  came  timidly  in  and 
begged  me  to  let  her  see  how  the  costumes  are 
made." 

"  How  curious,"  said  Ruth.     "  That  little  mouse ! " 

"Couldn't  we  have  her  in  now?"  asked  Alec. 
"Do  you  mind?" 

"Certainly  not;  ask  her,"  the  teacher  replied. 

Alec  went  out  to  the  fence  with  the  message,  and 
Susan  Hall's  face  grew  rosy  and  then  radiant.  "Oh, 
I'd  love  to!"  she  cried. 

She  greeted  the  director  timidly,  and  when  she 
was  introduced  to  one  or  two  of  the  dancers  she 
drew  near  them  and  studied  their  robes,  plucking 
at  a  fastening  here  and  there  and  asking  questions. 
When  another  dance  started,  she  sat  down  abruptly, 
and  gave  her  whole  attention  to  it. 

A  pupil  had  "realized"  some  piece  of  music  as  the 
pursuit  of  the  ideal,  and  was  trying  to  express  the 
pursuit  by  going  on  and  on  and  on  and  on  and  ON, 
while  the  ideal  fluttered  away  and  away  and  away 
amid  the  trees  of  the  grove.  Alec,  watching  the 
newcomer  keenly,  saw  her  hands  imitating  with  al- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  235 

most  imperceptible  motions  the  beat  of  the  dancer's 
hands,  and  her  whole  body  tense  with  strain,  as  if 
she  herself  were  doing  the  dance  mentally. 

When  the  exhibition  was  over  he  walked  back 
toward  the  village  beside  her,  while  Rob  and  Ruth 
Eliot  walked  on  ahead. 

"Wasn't  it  wonderful!"  she  exclaimed,  almost  as 
if  to  herself. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  interested  in  dancing," 
said  Alec. 

"Neither  did  I,"  she  answered.  "When  they 
first  came  here  Mr.  Hall — Tom — said  I  wasn't  to 
go  near  them.  He  thinks  they  are  very  immodest 
and  horrid.  But  I  went  finally — everybody's  been, 
I  guess.  I  don't  think  they  are  immodest,  do  you?" 

Alec  smiled.  "Millie  Tilton  still  thinks  they 
are,"  he  said. 

"But  you  don't,  and  Ruth  and  Mr.  Eliot  don't," 
she  went  on  eagerly.  "Why,  they've  just  opened  a 
kind  of  new  world  to  me,  or  rather  reopened  it." 

She  paused  as  if  she  didn't  know  how  to  continue. 

"Reopened?"  Alec  prompted. 

There  was  a  frown  between  the  woman's  brows. 
"I  don't  know  how  to  talk  and  express  things,"  she 
said.  "We — we  don't  talk  much  in  my  house. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Hall — Tom — sits  through  an  entire 
meal  without  saying  a  word." 


236  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Alec  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her.  He  scented  sudden 
unexpected  dramatic  possibilities.  "  But  it  isn't  hard 
when  you've  broken  the  first  ice,"  he  said  kindly. 

"I — I  know.  Well,  when  I  was  a  girl,  over  in 
Bentford,  I  began  to  take  piano  lessons.  I  guess 
I  wasn't  really  musical,  or  I'd  have  kept  on  after  I 
got  married.  Only  we  didn't  have  a  piano — we 
couldn't  afford  one  at  first,  and  Mr.  Hall — Tom — 
has  never  thought  one  was  necessary.  He  did  give 
me  a  phonograph  for  Christmas,  but  that's  not 
the  same  thing,  is  it?  " 

"Not  quite,"  said  Alec.  "You  mean  you  don't 
make  the  music  yourself,  with  the  phonograph?" 

"That's  it!"  she  cried.  "That's  just  it!  When 
I  was  beginning  to  get  so  I  could  play  a  little  I'd 
hear  the  teacher  get  the  rhythm  out  of  a  tune,  and 
then  I'd  see  the  notes  in  front  of  me  at  home,  and 
know  the  rhythm  was  in  them,  and  I'd — I'd  just  feel 
good  all  over  when  I  could  make  it  come  out!  And 
chords,  too.  Some  chords  would  make  me  feel  sad, 
and  some  would  make  me  shut  my  eyes  and  see 
pictures." 

"And  you  mean  these  dances  have  made  you  see 
pictures  and  want  to  get  the  rhythm  out  of  yourself 
again,  eh?" 

She  nodded  her  head.  "They've  sort  of  given 
life  a  meaning  again,"  she  answered. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  237 

It  was  Alec's  turn  to  frown.  "How  old  are  you?'* 
he  asked. 

"I'm  thirty -two,"  she  answered.  "I  ought  to  be 
a  middle-aged  wife,  and  not  talking  such  nonsense, 
oughtn't  I?" 

"Some  people  would  say  so,"  he  replied.  "Per- 
sonally, I  think  you  ought  to  be  back  there  taking 
lessons." 

"Oh,  if  I  only  could !  But  Mr.  Hall  would  divorce 
me  on  the  spot.  It's  made  trouble  enough  as  it  is." 

"You  mean?" 

Rob  and  Ruth  at  that  moment  turned  around  to 
address  some  remark  to  the  two  behind,  and  the 
woman  muttered  quickly:  "Never  mind  what  I 
mean.  Let's  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 

At  the  first  branch  street  she  turned  off  rapidly 
toward  her  house.  "I  mustn't  be  late  with  Mr. 
Hall's  lunch,"  she  said. 

Alec  shook  his  head.  "How  very  stupid  some 
good  people  are,"  he  remarked.  "No,  I  don't 
mean  you,  Ruth.  You're  no  better  than  you  ought 
to  be." 

He  thought  a  good  deal  in  the  next  day  or  two  of 
this  chance  glimpse  into  the  domestic  life  of  the 
Halls.  Tom  Hall  he  had  known  from  boyhood,  and 
two  or  three  times  a  week  passed  a  pleasant  word 
with  him  over  the  till  of  the  bank,  or  met  him  on  the 


238  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

village  street.  That  Tom  would  ever  be  deliberately 
unkind  to  anybody  was  incredible.  He  was  slow 
and  solid  and  conservative,  but  he  was  a  just  man 
with  an  almost  painfully  acute  conscience  in  his 
daily  dealings,  and  he  held  many  positions  of  trust 
in  the  town.  That  he  had  married  a  colourless  and 
uninteresting  girl  had  never  surprised  Alec.  What 
did  surprise  him  was  to  find  that  she  was  neither 
colourless  nor  uninteresting,  and  that  the  domestic 
life  of  Tom  Hall,  which  he  had  always  fancied  went 
jogging  placidly  along,  was  evidently  bumping  on  the 
rocks  of  misunderstanding. 

He  went  into  the  bank  and  looked  at  Tom  sharply. 
The  man's  face  actually  did  look  troubled. 

Alec  cashed  a  check.  "Seen  these  new  dancers 
yet,  Tom?"  he  asked  innocently,  as  he  took  the  bills. 
"They're  well  worth  it.  I  saw  one  of  the  prettiest 
dances  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  up  there  the  other  day." 

The  cashier's  hand  jingled  the  pile  of  loose  change 
it  rested  on.  "I've  not,"  he  answered  briefly. 
"What's  more,  I  don't  want  to." 

"Oh,  come,  that's  unfair  and  illiberal,"  said  Alec. 
"Look  at  everything  before  you  judge  it." 

"I've  seen  enough  of  that  dancing!" 

"But  if  you've  not  been  up  there "  Alec  began. 

Tom  bit  his  lip.  Then  he  seemed  suddenly  to 
come  to  a  decision.  Leaning  over  the  till  and  speak- 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  239 

ing  in  a  low  voice  so  that  the  bookkeeper  could  not 
hear  him,  he  said,  "Alec,  will  you  come  home  with 
me?  It's  after  eleven.  Dan  can  handle  things  till 
lunch." 

"Why,  certainly,  if  you  wish,"  the  elder  man  an- 
swered, surprised. 

Tom  jammed  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  set  out  at 
a  rapid  pace,  explaining  nothing.  His  house  was 
on  a  pleasant  little  side  street,  with  a  backyard 
running  down  to  the  river.  The  yard  was  screened 
by  a  hedge  of  Japanese  willow  on  one  side;  on  the 
other  was  a  bit  of  wood,  for  it  was  the  last  house  on 
the  street.  There  were  no  flowers  in  the  door- 
yard,  though  the  small  lawn  was  neatly  clipped. 
The  two  men  walked  up  the  path.  From  some- 
where in  the  rear  they  could  hear  a  phonograph, 
playing  Grieg's  "Slumber  Song."  On  the  step 
Tom  paused  a  moment,  as  if  the  sound  hurt  him. 

"I've — I've  got  to  tell  somebody,"  he  stammered. 
"You — you  understand  things — women — you've  al- 
ways been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Alec.  Maybe  you 
don't  remember  it  was  you  got  me  the  job  in  the 
bank.  I — go  in,  please." 

He  held  open  the  door,  and  Alec  entered.  Then 
hejed  the  way  through  a  bare,  stiff  parlour,  through 
the  dining-room  where  the  table  was  set  for  lunch, 
and  the  kitchen,  and  out  on  the  back  porch.  He  had 


240  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

opened  the  back  door  quietly,  and  stood  pointing 
into  the  rear  yard.  Alec  needed  no  beckoning  finger, 
however.  Susan  Hall,  clad  in  a  chiffon  gown  like 
those  of  the  eurhythmic  dancers,  except  that  it  was 
bright  yellow  and  had  two  side  pieces  caught  to  her 
wrists  with  ribbons  so  that  they  waved  like  wings 
when  she  raised  her  arms,  was  dancing  barefoot  to 
the  strains  of  Grieg's  lullaby. 

The  yard  was  carpeted  only  with  sparse  grass,  for 
Tom  thriftily  kept  chickens  which  now  and  then 
were  allowed  out  of  the  coop.  There  were  some 
vegetables  on  one  side,  but  only  a  straggling  handful 
of  flowers  here  and  there,  and  a  tall  weed  or  two. 
The  strange,  bare-legged  apparition  in  yellow  was 
gyrating  from  one  flower  or  weed  to  the  next,  swoop- 
ing up  and  dipping  down  to  the  peculiar  lift  and 
scoop  of  the  music. 

"That  is  what  it's  come  to — mywife!"  said  Tom, 
under  his  breath.  Then  he  started  to  call  to  her, 
when  Alec  laid  a  quick  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't!"  the  Bird  House  Man  exclaimed.  "Be 
a  gentleman,  and  let  me  withdraw.  What  is  she 
dancing?" 

"She  t-h"ik«  she's  a  goldfinch,  I  believe,"  Tom 
muttered.  "She  says  that  tune  reminds  her  of  the 
way  they  fly." 

"By  Jove,  she's  right!"  exclaimed  Alec. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  241 

"Are  you  crazy,  too?"  Tom  almost  sneered.  "All 
right,  go  back  in  the  house.  I'm  going  to  stop  her." 

Alec  stepped  back  into  the  kitchen.  Instantly 
he  heard  the  man  call  out,  "Stop  that  dancing  and 
come  in  and  dress  yourself  properly!" 

There  was  no  reply  from  the  woman,  but  the 
phonograph  ceased. 

"You'd  better  be  quick,  too,"  the  man  added. 
"Mr.  Farnum's  in  the  house." 

Alec  heard  the  woman's  voice  now,  close  to  the 
porch,  and  he  slipped  to  the  shelter  of  the  dining- 
room  door. 

"I  don't  believe  Mr.  Farnum  will  mind  seeing 
me,"  she  was  saying.  "He  was  watching  forty  girls 
dressed  tHs  way  the  other  day,  and  said  he  liked 
it."  Her  tone  was  irritably  sarcastic. 

"So  you've  been  up  there  again,  have  you?" 
Tom  answered.  "Well,  whether  you  want  Mr. 
Farnum  to  see  you  without  any  clothes  on  or  not, 
I  don't!  What's  more,  I  won't  have  it.  Go  into 
the  house  and  dress!" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  Alec  heard  the 
woman's  voice,  like  the  voice  of  a  stranger: 

"You  have  told  me  for  the  last  time  what  I  shall 
or  what  I  shall  not  do,"  she  said.  "That  may  be 
your  idea  of  marriage.  It  isn't  mine.  Hereafter 
you'll  speak  to  me  as  little  as  possible,  and  that  to 


242  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

tell  me  what  you  want  for  meals.  I  am  going  in 
now  because  it  is  time  to  get  your  luncheon.  I  trust 
you  haven't  invited  Mr.  Farnum  to  stay.  That 
would  be  a  merry  party!" 

Alec  slipped  into  the  front  room,  and  heard 
her  bare  feet  go  pattering  into  the  hall  and  up  the 
stairs. 

Tom  came  into  the  parlour  behind  her.  He  was 
wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow,  and  his  face  was 
drawn  with  perplexed  agony. 

"You  heard?"  he  said. 

Alec  nodded. 

"Now  you  know  what  I  have  to  contend  with — 
what  my  life  is,"  he  added. 

"I  know  now  that  you  are  a  fool,  Tom,"  was  all 
Alec  replied,  and  walked  out  of  the  house. 

He  thought  it  best  to  allow  his  parting  shot  to 
sink  in,  but  the  next  morning,  when  he  knew  that 
Tom  would  be  busy  at  the  bank  with  the  town 
payrolls,  he  went  to  the  house.  Susan,  looking  as 
if  she  had  spent  a  sleepless  night,  let  him  in. 

"I  heard  what  took  place  yesterday,"  he  said  at 
once.  "I  also  saw  a  bit  of  your  dance.  The  gold- 
finches do  fly  with  the  swoop  of  that  music,  that's  a 
fact." 

She  did  not  brighten  at  his  praise.  "Where  is  it 
all  going  to  end?"  she  said  wearily. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  243 

"I  hope  in  a  better  understanding  from  both  of 
you,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 

"Both  of  us?" 

"Yes,  both  of  you.  It  takes  two  to  make  a  kiss 
or  a  quarrel.  I  can't  say  I  much  blame  you,  but  I 
can't  wholly  blame  Tom,  either." 

"But  you  said  you  saw  no  harm  in  that  dancing, 
you  said " 

"That's  not  quite  what  I  mean,"  Alec  interrupted 
gently.  "If  it  were  only  Tom's  old-fashioned, 
granite-headed  Puritan  objection  to  bare  legs  in  his 
backyard,  the  case  wouldn't  be  so  difficult.  Old- 
fashioned  notions  always  have  to  give  way  sooner  or 
later.  What  you've  got  to  fight  is  Tom's  total  lack 
of  comprehension  of  the  human  soul's  need,  your 
need,  for  some  form  of  creative,  esthetic  expression. 
Don't  let  those  big  words  trouble  you.  You'll  get  my 
drift.  And  that  he  hasn't  the  ghost  or  the  glimmer  of 
such  comprehension  is  partly  your  fault,  my  dear." 

"My  fault?" 

"Yes,  yours."  Alec  swept  his  arm  around  the 
bare,  stiff  parlour.  "You've  been  married  almost  a 
dozen  years,  haven't  you,  and  look  at  this  room! 
You  don't  think  it's  pretty,  now  do  you?  Anybody 
who  could  love  those  dances  we  saw  couldn't  find 
any  joy  in  this  room.  Where  are  your  pictures — 
good,  bright  pictures?  Where  are  your  cut  flowers? 


244  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Where  are  the  flowers  out  in  your  yard?  Where  are 
the  books  that  ought  to  be  on  your  table?  A 
Sunday-school  weekly  and  yesterday's  Springfield 
Republican!  Where  is  your  piano?  You  ought  to 
have  made  him  get  you  a  piano  years  ago.  If  he 
wouldn't,  you  ought  to  have  skimped  his  food  till 
you  saved  up  for  it.  You  ought  to  have  been  play- 
ing at  him  these  dozen  years  every  evening.  In- 
stead of  that — what  happened?  You  gave  in  to 
this  haircloth  horror  of  a  parlour  on  the  day  he 
brought  you  here,  and  now,  when  you  revolt  and 
kick  off  your  shoes  and  stockings  and  go  dancing 
half-naked  defiance  in  the  backyard,  you  wonder 
that  he  doesn't  understand!" 

The  woman  was  silent,  looking  at  the  floor.  She 
suddenly  flung  up  her  head.  "Yes,  this  room  is 
ugly,  ugly,  ugly!"  she  cried.  "I  do  hate  it.  I've 
always  hated  it!  I  wanted  to  make  it  bright  years 
and  years  ago.  I  took  down  that  awful  shepherd 
hugging  a  lamb,  and  put  up  a  coloured  picture.  We 
had  a  scene  then.  I've  never  tried  again." 

Alec  shook  his  head.  "You  should  have  shifted 
the  shepherd  to  a  pasture  on  the  side  wall  first," 
he  smiled.  "Remember,  Tom  holds  the  old  things 
dear,  and  that  engraving  is  part  of  his  religion  to 
him,  in  a  sense.  Maybe  you  should  have  begun  with 
flowers.  Go  get  two  vases." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  245 

"I  don't  know  if  there  are  any  in  the  house," 
she  said,  astonished. 

"Then  bring  a  couple  of  kitchen  bowls — blue 
earthenware  if  you  have  'em." 

The  woman  obeyed,  bewildered,  and  Alec,  step- 
ping out  on  the  porch,  brought  in  a  basket  he  had 
deposited  there  before  he  rang.  It  was  full  of  flowers. 
"Those  two  bowls  are  not  enough,"  he  declared. 
"Get  something  tall  and  fairly  slim.  Lord,  what  a 
house!  Nothing  to  put  flowers  in.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed." 

Susan  reappeared  a  moment  later  with  a  tall 
china  chocolate  pot.  "This  is  all  I  can  find,"  she 
said. 

"  It  will  do,"  Alec  declared.    "  Now  help  me." 

They  filled  the  chocolate  pot  with  the  straight 
spikes  of  larkspur,  hiding  the  lid  with  leaves,  and 
turning  the  handle  to  the  wall  stood  it  on  the  mantel. 
Then,  in  the  two  earthen  bowls,  they  arranged  the 
other  blooms,  a  bowl  of  sweet  peas  and  a  bowl  of 
roses,  and  stood  one  on  a  table,  while  Alec  carried 
the  other  to  the  dining-room  and  placed  it  on  the 
centrepiece — or,  rather,  in  the  spot  where  there 
should  have  been  a  centrepiece. 

"There,"  he  cried,  "don't  they  lighten  up  your 
house  a  bit?" 

"Of  course  they  do,"  said  the  woman  mournfully. 


246  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"But  where  am  I  going  to  get  flowers  to  use  every 
day?" 

"Where  are  you  going  to  get  them?  Out  of  your 
own  garden,  of  course!  Not  this  year,  but  next. 
This  year  I  presume  you're  going  to  come  up  to  my 
garden  and  pick  'em.*' 

"But  Mr.  Hall  isn't  interested  in  gardening,"  she 
said.  "He  raises  some  vegetables  in  the  backyard 
because  he  thinks  it's  economical,  that's  all.  I 
asked  him  once  to  make  me  a  flower  bed  in  front  of 
the  house  and  all  he  said  was  it  would  spoil  the 
lawn." 

"Make  it  yourself,  then,"  Alec  retorted.  "The 
trouble  with  you  is,  Susan,  that  you  haven't  any 
strength  of  character.  If  at  any  time  you'd  shown 
Tom  persistently  how  pretty  a  room  can  look  full 
of  flowers  and  brightness,  and  how  nice  his  house 
could  look  with  roses  over  the  porch  and  foxgloves 
by  the  path,  he'd  have  had  off  his  coat  working 
every  night.  But  you  didn't  have  strength  of 
character  enough  to  do  that,  which  means  you  didn't 
really  care  very  much  about  flowers  and  pretty 
rooms  yourself.  Tom  is  a  solid,  plodding  man,  from 
a  solid,  plodding  stock.  He  was  brought  up  on 
cornbread,  the  Bible,  and  'Work  for  the  night  is 
coming.'  All  the  normal  esthetic  instincts  are 
dormant  in  him.  It  was  your  task  as  a  wife  years 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  247 

ago  to  lay  siege  to  them,  to  play  Prince  to  the  Sleep- 
ing Beauty.  Instead,  you  let  your  own  go  to  sleep, 
too.  And  now  you  are  suddenly  at  odds  with  each 
other,  and  rasping  each  other's  nerves.  Isn't  that 
true?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered.  "Yes,  it's  true, 
especially  the  nerves.  Oh,  that's  been  coming  some 
time.  It  wasn't  only  this  dancing.  And  I  will  not 
be  told  by  any  man  what  I  must  and  must  not  do!" 

**I  don't  blame  you  there,"  said  Alec  gently. 
"How  did  you  come  to  marry  Tom,  by  the  way?" 

"Why — why "  she  hesitated,  as  if  surprised 

by  the  question.  "I  guess  he  just  made  me.  He 
used  to  come  over  to  Bentford  on  business,  and 
father'd  bring  him  home  to  lunch,  and — and  he  fell 
in  love  with  me.  He  was  handsome  then " 

"He's  handsome  now,"  Alec  interrupted. 

"Well,  he  was  younger  then,  not  middle-aged  and 
settled,  and  I  was  a  girl,  and  he  just  took  me.  But 
it's  different  when  a  handsome  man  of  thirty  tells 
you  you  must  love  him,  and  the  same  man  tells  you 
twelve  years  later  that  you  must  not  do  what  you 
want  to  do,  just  because  he  doesn't  happen  to  like 
it!" 

"Yes,"  said  Alec  with  a  little  smile,  "it's  as  dif- 
ferent as  marriage  from  courtship.  But  you  must 
remember — try  to  remember — that  Tom  loves  you, 


248  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

and  it  is  because  he  loves  you  that  he  feels  so  deeply 
your  revolt  from  what  he  thinks  is  the  only  path  to 
salvation.  Now  you  and  I  have  got  a  big  task  ahead 
of  us — I  include  myself,  because  I'm  going  to  try 
to  help,  as  an  old  friend  of  Tom's.  Our  task  is  to 
show  him  his  isn't  the  only  path.  We  must  have 
patience  and  tact.  All  I'm  going  to  suggest  to  you 
now  is,  that  you  keep  the  house  full  of  flowers  out 
of  my  garden,  and  that  you  go  up  to  Flora  Dale  and 
have  her  train  you  in  that  dance.  I've  got  her  to 
promise  she  will." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Susan.  "You  suggest  that 
as  a  way  to  win  Tom?" 

"You  will  certainly  gain  nothing  if  you  patch 
up  a  truce  by  backing  down,"  said  Alec.  "Only 
don't  fight  with  him  about  it.  I  shall  tell  him  my- 
self that  it  was  my  suggestion.  Good-bye,  little 
woman.  Don't  forget — fresh  flowers  every  two 
days!  You  may  keep  the  basket  to  fetch  'em  in." 

The  Bird  House  Man  went  down  the  path,  noting 
as  he  went  the  neat  little  square  of  lawn,  which  rep- 
resented poor  Tom's  limit  of  esthetic  expression. 
The  path  was  trimmed  with  mathematical  precision. 
He  could  see  Tom  coming  home  from  the  bank  and 
getting  out  the  edger. 

"That's  the  kind  who  often  make  the  best  gar- 
deners," he  said  to  himself. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  249 

He  went  to  the  bank  at  three  o'clock.  "I've 
come  to  take  you  to  my  house,  this  time,"  he  said. 

The  man  walked  glum  and  troubled  at  his  side. 
"You  called  me  a  fool  yesterday,  Alec,"  he  said. 
"I  guess  it  makes  any  man  mad  to  be  called  a  fool, 
but  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  wondering  why 
you  said  it.  I  can't  stay  mad  at  you." 

"Of  course  not!"  the  Bird  House  Man  laughed. 
"Nobody  can.  I  just  won't  let  'em.  I  called  you  a 
fool,  Tom,  because  you  are  one.  Any  man's  a  fool 
in  this  day  and  generation  who  tries  to  tell  an  in- 
telligent woman  that  she  must  or  must  not  do  a 
thing.  Women  are  people  nowadays,  Tom,  people 
even  before  they  are  wives.  Neither  you  nor  Susan 
read  enough,  you  both  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
ignorance.  But  she's  got  a  woman's  intuition,  and 
she  knows  that  her  sex  is  on  the  march.  You  are  a 
fool  for  not  knowing  it,  too.  You  think  you  are 
your  grandfather,  and  as  I  recall  old  Madame  Hall, 
your  grandfather  would  have  been  a  bit  of  a  fool, 
also,  to  give  her  too  many  orders." 

Tom  managed  a  crooked  smile  at  the  mention  of 
his  grandmother,  who  had  been  noted  in  Southmead 
for  her  bass  voice  and  "managing"  proclivities. 
"But  when  my  wife  was  doing  something  she  ought 
to  have  been  ashamed  of "  he  began. 

"Nonsense,"  Alec  interrupted,  leading  the  way 


250  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

into  the  multicoloured  bloom  and  bird  song  of  his 
garden.  "She  was  doing  nothing  of  the  kind.  Now, 
sit  down  here,  Tom,  and  listen  to  me.  I'm  going 
to  talk  to  you  like  a  Dutch  uncle,  and  you've  got  to 
take  it,  too.  But  first,  look  at  my  garden.  Isn't 
it  pretty?" 

Tom  looked  about  him  at  the  riotous  beds,  the 
winding  paths,  the  sundial,  the  bird  baths.  "Yes," 
he  said,  "of  course,  it's  pretty.  You  always  did  have 
a  pretty  garden." 

"Why  don't  you  have  one?  Women  like  flowers. 
Every  woman  ought  to  have  flowers  to  put  in  her 
house.  If  you  look  at  your  wife  at  dinner  across  a 
bowl  of  roses,  that  will  help  to  keep  the  blush  on 
her  cheeks." 

"Why,  I — I — I  don't  know,"  the  man  stammered. 
"I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  at  flowers." 

"Well,  never  mind  that  now,"  Alec  went  on. 
"Only  I'm  shy  of  a  house  where  they  don't  keep 
flowers  on  the  table.  Tom,  not  being  married  my- 
self, I  know  a  lot  more  about  women  than  you  do. 
I  know  some  things  about  your  wife  that  you  don't 
know.  She's  told  me — to  your  everlasting  shame, 
because  it  was  you  she  ought  to  have  told " 

"Me!"  cut  in  Tom  bitterly.  "She  doesn't  talk 
at  all  to  me  now!  She  moved  all  her  things  into 
the  spare  room  last  night." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  251 

"Exactly.  You  violated  her  sense  of  independent 
personality  by  trying  to  order  her  about.  I  don't 
blame  her.  But  that's  not  it.  Before  you  married 
her  she  was  studying  the  piano.  It  wasn't  much, 
maybe,  but  it  was  the  only  way  she  had  of  expressing 
that  bit  of  the  artist  which  is  hi  her  soul — which  is 
in  the  soul  of  most  of  us.  You  never  gave  her  a 
piano,  did  you?  She  choked  off  that  artist  in  her 
when  she  married  you,  and  it's  never  good  for  us  to 
choke  off  our  worthy  impulse.  These  dances  this 
summer  have  evidently  come  at  a  time  when  she  had 
just  about  choked  down  her  impulses  as  long  as  she 
could,  with  nothing  to  take  then*  place.  Something 
she  felt  in  the  dances  called  to  her  like  a  voice  of 
nature,  and  she  just  had  to  respond.  All  the  im- 
pulses she  has  been  bottling  up  for  twelve  years  to 
make  her  own  hands  or  her  own  feet  express  her  in- 
ward love  of  rhythm,  all  her  instincts  to  create  a  bit 
of  beauty  herself,  just  popped  right  out.  She  was 
doing  no  harm  in  her  yellow  gown  and  her  bare 
feet,  prancing  about  her  own  backyard.  You  were 
mad  because  she  was  doing  something  you  didn't 
approve  of,  and  your  vanity  was  a  bit  wounded, 
too,  because  she  was  disobeying  you.  I  daresay 
to  you  she  was  ridiculous  and  immodest.  To  me 
she  was  pathetic.  I  saw  a  woman  who  ought  to 
have  had  a  piano  for  the  past  twelve  years." 


252  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Alec  paused,  and  there  was  a  silence. 

"I  couldn't  get  her  a  piano  at  first — I  was  too 
poor,"  said  Tom. 

" But  later,  eh?  " 

"My  mother  never  had  a  piano,  and  she  didn't 
leave  my  father's  bed!"  said  the  man. 

"Your  mother  had  five  children,"  said  Alec  quietly. 

Again  there  was  silence.  Tom  Hall  averted  his 
face. 

"You  love  your  wife,  don't  you?"  Alec  asked. 

"Love  her!"  the  man  dug  his  fingers  into  his 
palms.  "Of  course  I  love  her!  Sometimes  I've 
been  afraid  I  loved  her  more  than  God,  and 
prayed  for  help.  That's — that's  what  makes  it  so 
hard." 

"Yes,  you  do  love  her — in  your  way,"  Alec  mused. 
"But  I  can  fancy  it's  hard  for  her  to  guess  it  some- 
times as  you  sit  there  silent  in  your  hideous  parlour, 
thinking  over  the  bank's  affairs,  or  the  Sunday-school 
text." 

"Hideous  parlour — what  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say,  Tom.  Your  parlour  is  hideous. 
It  gives  me  the  creeps.  It's  barer  than  your  yard, 
even.  You  live  the  barest  life  of  any  man  I  know- 
no  colour,  no  fun,  no  flowers,  no  music,  no  beauty. 
You  set  the  stage  poorly  for  a  love  scene,  my  friend." 

Again  Tom  was  silent,  looking  at  the  ground. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  253 

"I  made  arrangements  this  morning  for  Susan  to 
take  lessons  of  the  new  dancing  teacher,"  Alec  went 
on.  "No,  don't  interrupt!  You  are  going  to  sit 
right  there  and  hear  me  out.  She  might  as  well 
learn  right,  while  she's  about  it.  In  spite  of  what 
you  think,  this  dancing  combines  a  great  deal  of 
value — sense  of  musical  rhythm,  grace  of  body,  and 
imagination.  If  I  had  a  girl,  I'd  make  her  study  it. 
There'd  be  less  horrible  onesteps  banged  out  on 
pianos  and  whined  out  on  phonographs  if  everybody 
learned  it,  at  any  rate.  The  barefoot  part  is  inno- 
cent and  pictorial,  but  not  essential.  Susan  isn't 
an  idiot,  if  she  did  marry  you.  She's  not  going  to 
appear  barefoot  at  the  next  Town  Hall  dance.  But 
she  is,  unless  I'm  mistaken,  going  to  be  able  to  take 
hold  of  our  high-school  girls  this  winter  and  give  them 
some  wholesome  training.  Perhaps  she  can  stage  a 
little  dancing  pageant  in  their  play.  We  might 
even  have  a  June  dance  here  in  my  garden.  The 
girls  would  love  it.  It  would  mean  a  lot  for  most  of 
them,  who  walk  like  kangaroos  and  never  hear  good 
music  and  think  that  dancing  means  nothing  but  a 
chance  to  flirt  on  the  back  steps  of  the  Town  Hall. 
And  it  would  give  Susan  a  chance  to  do  something, 
to  use  her  imagination,  to  express  herself." 

"She  has  a  Sunday-school  class,"  Tom  put  in. 

"She  needn't  dance  on  Sunday,"  Alec  laughed, 


254  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"even  if  dancing  was  a  part  of  religious  observance 
in  the  old  days." 

"Besides,  I  won't  have  her  taking  lessons  of 
that " 

"Tut/ tut!"  said  the  Bird  House  Man.  "Don't 
say  you  won't.  The  time  has  passed  between  you 
two  when  you  can  say  will  or  won't!  Take  it  from 
an  old  meddler  who  wishes  you  both  well,  my 
boy,  go  home  and  woo  your  wife  all  over  again,  if 
you  want  to  win  her  back.  Now,  I'm  through  with 
you." 

"But  I  want  to  say " 

"I'm  through  with  you.  Get  out!  I  want  to 
work,"  cried  Alec.  "You've  taken  up  too  much 
time  already,  talking  to  me  here  by  the  hour!" 

Tom  grinned  faintly.  "May — may  I  take  a  bunch 
of  these  flowers — what  do  you  call  'em?"  he  asked 
almost  timidly. 

"Oh,  the  larkspur.  Take  what  you  like,"  Alec 
replied,  turning  away  to  repress  a  smile. 

The  next  day  he  met  Tom  at  the  post-office. 
Tom's  face  was  a  bit  less  glum.  "She — she  had 
three  bunches  of  flowers  in  the  house  when  I  got 
home  yesterday,"  the  man  confided.  "I  guess  she 
had  to  use  the  chocolate  pot  to  put  one  of  'em  in. 
Do  you  suppose  she'd  like  it  if  I  bought  her  a  vase?" 

"  I'm  sure  she  would ! "  cried  Alec.     "  I'm  motoring 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  255 

over  to  Bentford  in  the  Doc's  jitney  to-day.  Shall 
I  pick  one  out  for  you?" 

"If  you'd  get  two,  please,"  said  Tom.  "Pretty 
ones,"  he  added. 

He  came  for  his  vases  late  that  afternoon,  and 
gathered  some  flowers  to  put  in  them.  Two  days 
later  it  was  Susan  who  came  for  flowers. 

"Did  you  tell  him  to  get  the  vases?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  unworthy  of  you,"  Alec  answered.  "You 
know  that  Tom  loves  you,  and  you  could  tell  from 
his  manner  whether  the  gift  was  his  own." 

Her  face  brightened.  "Oh,  I  wanted  to  believe 
it!"  she  cried.  "But  it  seemed  so  incredible.  I'm 
going  to  keep  those  vases  full ! " 

From  time  to  time  in  the  next  few  weeks  Alec 
saw  her  in  his  garden,  picking  flowers,  and  not  in- 
frequently Tom  came,  also,  after  banking  hours,  to 
take  blossoms  home. 

"I've  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  about  our 
parlour,"  he  mused  one  day,  "and  since  it's  been  lit 
up  with  these  posies,  I  can  kind  of  see  you  were 
right.  Do  you  suppose  I  could  afford  one  of  those 
pictures  young  Eliot  paints,  some  time,  as  a — a  sort 
of  present?" 

"I  might  see  Rob  about  it,"  Alec  admitted.  "He 
might  make  local  rates." 

A  day  or  two  later  Tom  carried  home  a  framed  oil 


256  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

painting,  a  Southmead  landscape.  It  was  a  sketch, 
to  be  sure,  but  the  bright  colours  pleased  him,  and 
he  recognized  the  scene,  which  pleased  him  more, 
and  he  felt  a  glow  of  sacrificial  extravagance, 
for  he  had  paid  ten  dollars.  Ruth  and  Rob 
smiled  with  the  Bird  House  Man  at  his  innocence, 
for  the  picture  would  .have  been  priced  at  one 
hundred. 

Meanwhile  Susan  continued  her  lessons  every 
other  afternoon.  Presently  Alec  went  up  again  to 
the  school,  and  saw  her  goldfinch  dance,  as  it  had 
developed  under  instruction.  She  had  worked  hard, 
and  to  good  purpose.  It  was  now  a  very  pretty, 
if  still  a  naive  dance,  a  swooping  flight  from  flower 
to  flower,  ending  in  a  flutter  into  the  hiding  of  a 
distant  thicket.  He  congratulated  her,  and  then 
made  the  proposition  he  had  been  planning — that 
she  should  dance  it  in  his  garden,  together  with  a 
dance  or  two  around  his  pond  by  the  other  pupils  of 
the  school.  A  few  select  souls  from  the  village  were 
to  be  invited,  and  Tom — "as  a  part  of  his  education,'* 
Alec  smiled. 

"He'll  never  come,"  said  Susan.  "He — he's 
trying  so  hard  to  be  different.  Sometimes  it  seems 
like  old  days  again.  But  we  never  mention  the 
dances.  He  can  never  forgive  those.  Or  he  can 
never  forgive  me  for  dancing  them." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  257 

"Well,  we'll  try  it,  anyhow,"  the  man  said,  and 
went  ahead  with  the  arrangements. 

He  caught  Tom  hi  his  garden  to  invite  him. 
"Tom,"  he  said,  "I'm  giving  a  little  entertainment 
here  Saturday  afternoon.  Two  or  three  of  those 
best  dancers  are  going  to  dance  here,  in  this  setting 
of  flowers  and  water  pool,  and  Mrs.  Tommy  Trask 
is  going  to  play  the  music  on  her  violin,  hidden  in 
the  shrubbery.  You  have  no  idea  of  how  lovely  it 
will  be,  so  I  want  you  to  come  and  see.  You're  a 
fair-minded  man — at  least,  you  often  say  you  are — 
so  I  know  you'll  come  and  judge  for  yourself." 

Tom's  face  grew  hard.  "Is — is  my  wife  going  to 
dance?  "he  asked. 

"Yes,  Tom,  and  you  won't  know  her  now.  She's 
improved  so." 

"She's  going  to  dance  in  that — that  yellow  thing, 
barefoot?" 

"I  believe  so.  Can't  you  be  fair,  can't  you  be 
just?  Come  and  see  it  in  its  proper  setting,  with  the 
music  and  the  sympathetic  audience.  Come,  Tom, 
and  try  to  understand  a  little  what  your  wife  is 
trying  to  do.  Until  you  do  understand  that,  you'll 
go  on  living  with  a  wall  between  you." 

The  man's  brows  were  contracted.  "I'll — I'll 
think  it  over,"  he  said.  "It's— it's  hard.  But  I 
want  to  be  f ah*.  I  want — /  want  my  wife  again  I " 


258  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

There  was  a  rehearsal  in  the  garden  later  that 
afternoon.  The  next  day  was  Friday.  Alec  was 
hard  at  work  in  the  morning  when  Susan  came 
into  the  shop.  Her  face  looked  bright  and  cheerful. 
"I'm  not  going  to  dance  Saturday,"  she  announced. 

"You're  not  what  ?"  cried  Alec. 

"I'm  not  going  to  dance  Saturday.  Tom  came 
home  last  night  late.  He'd  been  walking  around  in 
the  fields  across  the  river.  I  saw  him  out  of  the 
kitchen  window.  He  said  at  supper  he  'withdrew 
his  objections'  to  my  dancing,  and  was  coming  to 
see  me.  Poor  man,  I  could  see  how  hard  it  had 
been  for  him  to  say  that,  and  how  hard  it  would  be 
for  him  to  watch  me!  It's  me  that  he  objects  to  in 
that  costume,  really.  He's — he's  so  old-fashioned. 
It's  really  because  he  loves  me.  I'm  going  to  in- 
vent a  new  dance,  and  a  new  costume,  and  do  it  for 
him  later." 

Her  words  rushed  on,  and  Alec  watched  her  face. 
"But  you  wanted  to  give  your  dance  to-morrow 
didn't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  I  did,  dreadfully,"  she  replied,  a  little 
wistfully.  "But  if  he  backed  down,  I  ought  to 
back  down  a  little,  too,  oughtn't  I?" 

"You  have  spoiled  my  entertainment,  but  you're 
a  good  child,  and  I  love  you,"  said  the  Bird  House 
Man.  "Bring  your  stupid  old  Tom  to-morrow, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  259 

and  sit  among  the  spectators,  then.  We'll  show  hirT> 
the  best  that  remains." 

Tom  came,  and  sat  with  his  wife.  He  found  the 
Eliots  there,  and  Dr.  Tommy  Trask  and  the  presi- 
dent of  his  bank,  and  to  his  great  surprise  both  his 
own  pastor  and  the  Episcopal  rector.  Little  Miss 
Millie  Tilton  was  also  present,  looking  as  if  she  was 
about  to  be  shocked  and  was  bracing  for  it. 

But  nobody  was  shocked.  They  all  sat  in  the 
orchard,  and  from  a  source  unseen  came  the  lilt  of  a 
violin,  and  against  the  mirror  of  the  pond,  where 
the  ducks  and  swans  were  floating,  suddenly  appeared 
three  dancers  like  the  figures  on  a  Greek  vase,  and 
wove  a  living  frieze  on  the  grassy  margin.  In  one 
dance  they  ran  laughing  into  the  shallow  water, 
scattering  the  birds  in  terror.  In  another  they 
sank  at  the  end  like  tired  lilies  over  the  brim.  It 
was  really  very  lovely,  in  the  low  light  of  a  summer 
afternoon,  and  when  the  little  audience  broke  up  and 
moved  back  through  the  flower  garden  to  the  veranda 
for  tea,  they  were  chattering  enthusiastically.  Only 
Tom  was  silent.  At  tea  the  dancers,  conventionally 
clad,  joined  them.  The  youngest,  a  pretty,  slender, 
enthusiastic  miss  of  eighteen,  cried:  "Oh,  Mr.  Hall, 
what  a  pity  your  wife  couldn't  dance  to-day,  and 
she  had  it  all  rehearsed,  too !  She's  learned  quicker 
than  any  of  us.  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  her." 


260  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"I — I  am,"  Tom  stammered.  "She — she's  going 
to  coach  the  high-school  girls  next  winter,  I  believe." 

Tom  and  Susan  lingered  after  the  rest  had  gone. 

"She — she  just  didn't  dance  because  she  thought 
I  didn't  want  her  to,  Alec,"  the  man  said,  "after 
I'd  told  her  I  withdrew  my  objections.  I  try  to  be 
a  fair  man,  and  I  guess  she  was  trying  to  be  fair, 
too.  Marriage  is  a  kind  of  a  compromise,  isn't 
it?" 

"So  they  say,'*  Alec  replied.  "But  what  did  you 
think  of  the  dances?  That's  what  I  want  to  hear." 

"Well,  they  kind  of  made  me  think  of  a  picture  I 
saw  somewhere  once  of  Greek  girls,  I  guess  it  was. 
I  guess  maybe  I  wasn't  fair  to  them.  I  try  to  be 
fair." 

"Don't  try  to  be  fair,"  said  Alec,  "try  to  be  child- 
like. Try  to  see  all  the  new  and  lovely  things  in 
the  world  you  can.  Now,  go  get  your  wife  and 
tell  her  all  the  way  home  how  much  you  liked  the 
dances." 

A  week  later  Susan  summoned  Alec  to  her  house. 
The  parlour  was  full  of  flowers.  Over  Tom's  vases 
on  the  mantel  hung  Rob  Eliot's  landscape,  in  vivid 
greens  and  blues.  But  that  was  the  least  of  the 
transformation.  Against  the  wall,  beneath  the  old 
engraving  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  stood  a  brand- 
new  piano. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  261 

"Mine!"  cried  the  woman.  "It  came  yesterday 
afternoon.  He'd  never  said  a  word  to  anybody. 
It  was  a  complete  surprise.  And  do  you  know  what 
yesterday  was?" 

Alec  shook  his  head. 

"Our  wedding  anniversary,"  she  answered.  "He'd 
remembered  that,  too!  I — I — well,  I  guess  I 
cried." 

"I  hope  you  did,"  said  the  Bird  House  Man,  "on 
his  shoulder.  That's  the  way  to  thank  a  man.  It 
makes  him  feel  fine  and  oaky.  You  owe  him  that 
concession  to  the  old-fashioned  male." 

"I  owe  him  many  things,"  she  said,  turning  away 
and  touching  a  chord  softly. 

Tom  appeared  at  the  Bird  House  that  afternoon. 
"I  came  to  see  when  you  start  larkspurs  and  things 
for  next  year,"  he  said. 

"You  seem  to  have  started  something  already," 
said  Alec.  "I  noticed  a  new  piece  of  furniture  in 
your  house." 

"Yes,  and  I  got  a  good  one!"  cried  Tom,  turning 
red.  "Alec,  she — she's  come  back — upstairs,  I  mean! 
Oh,  life  has  got  right  again!'* 

"Yes,"  said  Alec,  "because  there's  no  cage  now. 
Think  of  her  always  as  a  goldfinch,  Tom.  Every 
woman's  soul  has  wings  that  long  to  beat  against 
the  blue.  You  can  build  'em  a  nice  little  bird 


262  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

house  and  invite  'em  in,  but  don't  put  wires  on  the 
door." 

"I — I  think  I'd  like  to  begin  with  larkspu-." 
Tom  answered.  "That's  the  first  one  I  learned  the 
name  of." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   PAMPERED   FLEDGLING 

ALEC  FARNUM  was  walking  in  the  Southmead 
cemetery,  observing  the  grackles  which  bred  in  the 
numerous  thick,  aged  pines  and  Norway  spruces 
and  made  the  otherwise  peaceful  spot  noisy  with  their 
harsh  calls,  like  the  grate  of  an  unoiled  hinge.  Alec 
liked  the  Southmead  cemetery.  It  recalled  to  him 
the  historic  retort  made  by  old  Doctor  Parker  who 
lived  in  the  white  house  at  the  edge,  when  somebody 
asked  him  if  he  wasn't  afraid  to  take  the  short  cut 
home  through  the  graveyard  at  night.  "Oh,  no," 
said  he,  "everybody  there  owes  me  money."  Alec 
liked  especially  the  older  corner,  where  the  pines 
were  the  largest  and  the  grackles  the  most  numerous. 
He  liked  it  not  only  for  the  quaint,  mossy  stones 
and  still  quainter  inscriptions,  but  for  the  prim 
arrangement  of  the  graves,  each  one  laid  east  and 
west  to  a  compass  line,  with  the  footstone  toward  the 
rising  sun,  in  strict  obedience  to  a  literal  faith  in 
the  resurrection  of  the  body,  so  that  when  Gabriel's 
trumpet  sounded  on  Resurrection  morning  every 
sleeper  could  awake  and  find  himself  faced  properly 

263 


264  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

without  confusion.  It  was  easy  to  see,  from  the 
arrangement  of  later  graves  and  the  date  of  their 
inscriptions,  when  the  decline  in  strict  Calvinistic 
faith  set  in.  Nor,  as  he  paused  by  many  a  green 
mound  and  read  the  names  on  the  stones,  did  Alec 
Farnum  need  any  Spoon  River  anthologist  to  tell 
him  the  true  stories.  We  carry  fewer  secrets  to 
our  graves,  perhaps,  than  we  think.  At  any  rate, 
Alec  had  reached  the  years  when  the  memory  loves  to 
play  with  the  past,  and  a  walk  through  the  cemetery 
was,  to  him,  like  turning  the  pages  of  a  comedie  humaine. 
On  this  particular  June  afternoon  he  smiled  when 
he  came  upon  two  little  girls  having  a  dolls'  tea 
party  on  the  large  table-stone  which  marked  the 
last  resting-place  of  Theophilus  Weston,  B  1741 — 
D  1801.  This  stone  was  in  the  centre  of  a  large 
lot,  screened  by  a  hemlock  hedge  and  entered  by 
a  wrought-iron  gate.  The  Westons  had  been  the 
squires  of  the  region,  and  they  maintained  a  certain 
aloofness  from  the  vulgar  herd,  enjoyed  a  decent 
privacy,  even  in  death.  But  the  two  little  girls 
felt  nothing  of  this.  They  saw  the  stone  only  as  a 
convenient  table,  and  entering  through  the  gate  had 
set  out  their  mimic  china  and  more  genuine  cookies 
directly  over  the  recumbent  dignity  of  the  original 
Theophilus,  founder  of  the  line.  Alec  passed  the 
time  of  day  with  them,  and  walked  on. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  265 

The  Weston  family  was  still  in  his  mind  when  he 
spied,  to  his  surprise,  a  present  bearer  of  the  name, 
Eunice  Weston,  walking  down  a  path,  with  a  young 
man  beside  her.  They  were  engaged  in  earnest 
conversation,  or  at  least  the  man  seemed  to  be  talk- 
ing earnestly  while  the  girl  listened,  and  they  walked 
slowly,  their  bodies  close  together.  They  walked, 
indeed,  like  two  people  in  love.  That  in  itself 
surprised  Alec,  and  he  was  more  surprised  when  he 
made  out  that  the  man  was  Will  Stone,  whose  father 
ran  the  drug  store  and  held  the  office  of  town  clerk. 
Will,  always  an  ambitious  boy,  had  gone  away  to  a 
technical  college,  earning  most  of  his  way  through, 
and  was  now  working  for  the  telephone  company  hi 
Pittsburgh.  That  much  Alec  knew.  He  also  recalled 
that  the  father  had  told  him  Will  was  coming  home 
soon  for  his  annual  vacation.  But  to  find  Will  walk- 
ing with  Eunice  Weston,  and  in  the  village  cemetery, 
caused  Alec  to  pucker  his  lips  in  an  amused  whistle. 

"However,"  he  said  to  himself,  "far  be  it  from  me 
to  spoil  poor  Eunice's  fun.  I  guess  she  has  little 
enough."  And  he  turned  back  toward  another  part 
of  the  burial  ground. 

Meanwhile,  the  couple  walked  slowly  on. 

"I've  got  forty  men  under  me,  in  my  department," 
Will  was  saying.  "Keeps  me  busy,  all  right,  but 
it's  great,  too!" 


266  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"It  must  be  great,"  said  the  girl,  looking  up  at 
him  with  an  admiration  she  could  not  quite  conceal. 

"Yes,  it's  great  to  have  a  department  of  your  own, 
and  it  means  more  money,  too.  Say,  if  anybody'd 
told  me  when  I  was  ladling  out  nut  sundaes  in  dad's 
drug  store  summer  vacations  that  in  five  years  I'd 
be  making  enough  to — to — to  get  married  on,  I'd 
have  called  him  a  liar!" 

Will  finished  the  sentence  bravely,  but  then  his 
courage  seemed  to  ooze.  He  relapsed  into  silence, 
and  the  slender  girl  beside  him,  her  pale  cheeks 
flushed,  was  silent,  too.  They  walked  on  thus  to 
the  end  of  the  path,  where  they  turned  and  began  to 
retrace  their  steps. 

"But — but  doesn't  it  seem  pleasant  to  get  back 
to  Southmead?"  she  asked  presently,  to  break  the 
pause. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly.  "Yes,  it  does,  I  guess. 
But  I  don't  know  if  I  can  make  you  understand; 
you've  never  been  away  from  here — to  work,  you 
know.  Somehow  all  my  past  life  here  doesn't 
seem  quite  real  now — it's  like  a  dream.  My  life 
now  is  down  there  in  that  'city  of  beautiful  smoke,' 
as  somebody  called  it.  It  really  is  beautiful  some- 
times, at  night,  especially,  from  the  hills.  I  kind  of 
feel  this  is  just  a  long  breath,  and  soon  I'll  be  back 
again." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  267 

"How  soon?"  she  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"A  month,"  said  he.     "I  wrote  you  that." 

"Yes,  you  said  you  were  to  have  a  month's  vaca- 
tion, but  I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  spend  it  all 
here." 

"Yes,  you  did,"  said  he,  facing  her.  "Say  you 
did!" 

She  coloured,  and  averted  her  face  with  a  happy 
smile,  shaking  her  head. 

"No,"  she  answered.     "How  could  I  tell?" 

His  fingers  sought  hers,  to  press  her  hand,  but 
she  wouldn't  let  him  touch  her. 

"I — I  must  be  going  home  now,"  she  declared. 
Then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  added  bravely: 
"Come  with  me  and  have  some  tea.  I — I  don't 
like  walking  this  way — in  the  cemetery." 

"It's  a  custom  hallowed  by  village  tradition," 
said  he. 

"I'm  afraid  mother  wouldn't  think  so,"  she  an- 
swered. And  the  man's  brow  clouded. 

They  walked  together  up  the  street,  and  turned 
in  at  the  gate  of  a  large,  gloomy  house  which  stood 
back  from  the  roadway,  under  several  mournful 
and  lofty  hemlocks  which  cast  a  kind  of  green  sha- 
dow on  the  ancient  dwelling — or  so  it  seemed. 
There  was  a  flagstone  walk  from  the  gate  to  the 
porch,  with  grass  in  the  cracks,  and  on  either  side 


268  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

day  lilies  run  wild.  Close  about  the  house  the  hem- 
lock needles  and  the  shade  had  killed  all  grass.  As 
the  young  man  advanced  up  the  path,  he  felt  a 
strange  uneasiness  settling  on  his  spirit. 

"This  is  the  first  time  you've  ever  been  in  my 
house,  isn't  it?"  Eunice  asked,  sensing  his  silence. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I've  brought  prescriptions 
here  from  the  store." 

He  spoke  sharply,  perhaps,  and  the  girl  reproached 
him  gently.  "That's  not  quite  fair  of  you,  Will." 

"I  know  it — forgive  me!"  he  answered.  "But 
you  Westons  are  awfully  uppish,  you  know." 

"Yes — I  know!"  she  said,  and  her  own  tone  was 
bitter. 

They  entered  a  gloomy  living-room  which  did  not 
belie  the  promise — or  the  threat — of  the  exterior. 
Will,  who  was  far  from  ignorant,  noted  that  while 
some  of  the  furniture  was  excellent  old  mahogany, 
more  of  it  was  mid- Victorian  walnut.  A  large  oil 
portrait  of  Theophilus  the  First  occupied  the  place 
of  honour  over  the  mantel — a  thin,  hard  face,  he 
had,  a  Tory  face  Will  thought.  But  perhaps  that 
was  imagination.  He  had  no  time  to  determine, 
for  Mrs.  Weston  entered  the  room  at  the  sound  of 
voices,  and  stood  looking  in  undisguised  surprise 
at  Will. 

"You — you  remember  Will  Stone,  mother,"  said 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  269 

Eunice.     "He's  home  from  Pittsburgh  on  his  vaca- 
tion.   I  thought  we'd  have  some  tea." 

Mrs.  Weston  barely  inclined  her  head.  She  was 
a  large  woman,  of  the  sort  who  must  inevitably  lose 
seventy-five  per  cent,  of  their  dignity  when  they 
remove  their  corsets.  And  she  belonged  to  that 
class  of  New  England  female  aristocrats  who  appear 
to  be  perpetually  expecting  a  bad  odour  to  assail 
their  nostrils.  Her  dress,  however,  was  in  the  latest 
mode,  and  she  undeniably  was  handsome,  in  her  way. 

"Pittsburgh?"  she  said.  "Are  you  in  Pitts- 
burgh? It  must  be  a  very  dirty  place." 

"The  industries  there  are  rather  more  extensive 
than  in  Southmead,"  said  Will. 

"I  dare  say.  The  charm  of  Southmead  is  its 
lack  of  industrialism,"  the  woman  replied.  "Did 
you  say  tea,  Eunice?  You  know  this  is  Lizzie's 
afternoon  out." 

"But  I  can  get  it,  mamma,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
won't  be  a  jiffy.  Excuse  me,  Will." 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room,  not  noticing  her 
mother's  glance  at  the  "Will,"  though  she  might 
have  felt  it  burning  her  back.  Left  alone  with 
Mrs.  Weston,  the  young  man  shifted  uneasily  in  his 
chair 

"I — I'm  sorry  Eunice  is  going  to  all  this  trouble," 
he  said. 


270  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

The  glance  was  fixed  on  him  this  time.  "My 
daughter  doubtless  does  not  so  regard  it,"  said  the 
woman.  "Neither,  probably,  does  she  know  where 
the  tea  is." 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Weston  followed  Eunice  from 
the  room.  Will,  his  face  hot,  heard  the  sound  of 
low  but  excited  conversation  from  a  distant  room, 
and  a  moment  or  two  later  Eunice  entered  with  a 
tea  tray,  her  own  face  flushed.  She  was  biting  her 
lower  lip  to  keep  back  the  tears.  Will  sprang  to 
meet  her,  and  took  the  tray  to  a  table.  He  tried  to 
look  into  her  face,  but  she  would  not  let  him.  "How 
many  lumps  ? ' '  she  said . 

He  had  scarcely  begun  to  drink  his  tea  when  the 
outer  door  opened,  and  a  lurching  step  was  heard  hi 
the  hall.  The  girl  half  rose  and  put  one  hand  to  her 
bosom.  "It's  Theo,"  she  whispered,  as  if  to  her- 
self. "  What's  he  doing  home  so  soon  ?  " 

Will  rose,  too.  "I  shouldn't  have  come,"  he  said. 
"I'd  better  be  going  now." 

The  girl  listened  to  the  steps,  which  were  going 
up  the  stairs  now.  "No!"  she  cried.  "You  shan't 
go !  You  finish  your  tea ! ' ' 

Will  obediently  sat  down  again,  and  timidly 
touched  Eunice's  fingers,  patting  them  tenderly. 
She  suddenly  averted  her  face  and  the  tears  came. 
"Don't ! "  she  whispered.  "Please ! " 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  271 

She  had  hardly  regained  her  composure  when  the 
steps  once  more  lurched  heavily  on  the  stairs,  de- 
scending this  time,  and  a  young  man  burst  into  the 
room.  He  was  not  much  over  thirty,  but  his  face 
was  older  with  dissipation,  and  he  looked  strangely 
like  the  portrait  of  Theophilus  over  the  mantel — 
a  Theophilus  the  worse  for  liquor.  His  mother 
was  close  behind  him,  laying  a  detaining  hand  on 
his  arm.  But  he  shook  her  off,  and  glared  at  his 
sister  and  Will. 

"Hello,  Theo,"  said  Will,  as  pleasantly  as  he  could. 

The  drunken  young  man  ignored  the  greeting, 
and  continued  to  stare  insolently. 

"Tea  party,  eh?"  he  presently  said.  "Why  don' 
you  have  him  serve  soda  water,  Eunice?"  With  a 
chuckle  at  his  wit,  he  lurched  toward  a  chair,  and 
steadied  himself  by  the  back. 

Eunice's  face  grew  red  and  then  deadly  white. 
She  walked  over  to  her  brother  and  faced  him. 
"You  go  upstairs  to  your  room,  Theo,"  she  cried, 
"and  don't  you  dare  to  interfere  in  my  affairs ! " 

"Hello,  li'le  shishter's  tellin'  me  whatter  do,  is 
she?"  he  shouted.  "Well,  I  won'  go  upstairs,  and 
I  won' " 

His  mother  broke  in  sharply  but  coaxingly. 
"Come,  Theo,"  she  said.  "He's  going  now.  Come 
with  mother,  that's  a  good  boy.  Come,  dear." 


272  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

She  put  an  arm  about  him,  forcing  him  from  the 
chair  toward  the  door. 

"Well,  I  damn  well  wan'  to  see  him  go!"  cried 
Theo. 

Will,  who  had  been  white  and  silent,  took  his  hat. 

"I  share  your  sentiments,  if  not  your  profanity," 
he  said.  He  turned  to  say  good-bye  to  Eunice,  but 
she  was  a  heap  in  her  chair,  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands.  Will  walked  past  the  mother  and  son  and 
out  of  the  door. 

And  just  as  he  reached  the  sidewalk,  his  face  still 
white,  his  hands  clenched,  his  body  trembling,  he 
almost  ran  into  Alec,  strolling  home  from  the  ceme- 
tery. 

"Hello!"  cried  the  Bird  House  Man,  putting  out 
a  hand.  "Well,  how's  the  Alexander  Graham  Bell 
of  the  twentieth  century?" 

Then  he  saw  Will's  face.  "What's  the  trouble?" 
he  added. 

"I— I— no,  I  can't  tell." 

"Come,"  said  Alec,  linking  an  arm  through  his, 
"walk  home  with  me  and  talk  it  out.  You'll  feel 
better  than  bottling  it  up.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you. 
I've  known  Lucy  Weston  all  my  life.  Did  she  treat 
you  like  a  bad  smell?" 

"You — you're  in  her  class.  You  can't  under- 
stand," said  Will. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  273 

"My  boy,  nobody's  in  her  class,  except  perhaps 
God  and  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Don't  let  a  little 
thing  like  that  worry  you,  you've  got  such  a  majority 
on  your  side." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that!"  cried  Will. 

"I  knew  it  wasn't.  Come,  wait  till  we  get  a 
pitcher  of  lemonade  on  my  veranda,  and  our  pipes 
going,  and  then  you'll  tell  me." 

Will,  still  burning  from  the  insult,  did  tell  him; 
but  he  added,  "Poor  Eunice!" 

Alec  took  a  long  pull  at  his  pipe  before  he  spoke. 
"Poor  Eunice,  indeed,"  he  finally  said.  "The  rest 
of  your  story,  while  interesting,  is  unimportant, 
if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so.  One  can't  seriously 
resent  insults  from  a  drunken  puppy.  And  as  for 
Lucy  Weston,  she's  been  exhibiting  her  bad  manners 
till  they're  notorious.  That's  how  a  lot  of  people 
know  she's  an  aristocrat.  I'm  sorry  for  her,  though. 
She  was  Eliot  Weston's  cousin,  and  cousins  have  no 
business  to  marry,  especially  when  they  already 
think  their  precious  family  is  so  important.  I've 
never  known  such  a  union  that  didn't  produce  at 
least  one  mealy-faced,  anaemic  snob.  But  of  course 
Lucy's  absurd  petting  of  that  pup  of  hers  spoiled 
him.  He's  a  pampered  fledgling.  She  didn't  even 
make  him  go  through  college  after  he  got  in  trouble 
his  freshman  year  at  Harvard — sided  with  him 


274  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

against  the  faculty.  I  believe  now  he  pretends  to 
go  down  to  the  mills  in  North  Benton  which  his 
uncle  runs,  but  he  spends  all  his  time  at  the  Riley 
House — he  just  a  plain  bum,  headed  for  cirrhosis 
of  the  liver  and  a  hot  grill  in  Hell.  You  saw  the 
merry  little  dinner  companion  who  conies  home  to 
cheer  up  mother  and  sister  every  night.  Pleasant 
thought,  isn't  it?  Of  course,  his  foolish  mother 
always  was  a  snob,  but  she's  acquired  considerable 
of  her  uppishness  in  self-defence — it's  a  kind  of 
pathetic  armour  against  the  sneers  of  the  world. 
I'm  a  bit  sorry  for  her,  Will.  But  I'm  sorriest  for 
poor  Eunice — a  nice,  sweet  girl,  Eunice,  who's  never 
had  half  a  chance.  It  was  always  Theo  first,  and 
mother  second  in  that  house,  and  Eunice  running 
a  bad  third.  There  are  the  facts,  in  good,  middle- 
class  English — lower  middle  at  that!" 

Alec  paused  and  looked  sharply  at  his  companion, 
as  if  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"It— it's  horrible!"  Will  answered. 

Alec's  eyes  were  still  on  him.  "Do  you  know 
Eunice  well?"  he  asked. 

"N — not  very.  Of  course,  I  knew  her  when  we 
were  kids — Sunday-school  and  all.  But  I  always 
thought  of  her  as  kind  of  belonging  to  another  world 
from  mine.  You  know  how  it  is  with  us  village 
people.  Last  summer,  though,  when  I  was  home  on 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  275 

vacation,  I  met  her  out  walking  one  day,  and  we 
went  quite  a  ways,  and  got  on  pretty  well,  and  went 
walking  some  more,  and  she  and  I  wrote  to  each 
other  this  winter  some,  and " 

He  broke  off  abruptly. 

"And  now  your  little  adventure  in  her  house  has 
jarred  your  pride,  eh,  and  made  you  hot  against — 
against  all  of  'em?" 

"Something  like  that,  I  suppose,"  Will  admitted 
lamely. 

"I  repeat,  poor  Eunice!"  said  Alec.  "My  boy, 
I  was  never  noted  for  my  ability  to  mind  my  own 
business.  I'm  giving  a  dinner  party  to-morrow 
night.  You  are  invited.  Seven  o'clock.  Go  along 
home  now  and  see  if  you  can't  write  a  note  to  Eunice 
that  will  make  her  feel  better.  Send  it  round  by 
messenger  this  evening.  You  rather  owe  it  to  her, 
you  know." 

He  patted  the  young  man  on  the  shoulder  and 
went  into  the  house  to  break  the  news  of  his  party  to 
Mrs.  Plumb. 

The  guests  were  to  be  Ruth  and  Rob  Eliot,  who 
had  arrived  for  the  summer,  and  Dr.  Thomas  Trask 
and  his  wife  who  was  instructed  to  bring  her  violin, 
and  Miss  Millie  Til  ton.  Alec  had  no  trouble 
rounding  them  up  early  that  evening.  Then  he 
walked  to  the  gloomy  house  at  the  end  of  the  flag- 


276  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

stone  path,  and  rang  the  bell.  There  was  a  light  in 
the  living-room.  Mrs.  Weston  was  seated  there, 
with  a  book,  alone.  She  had  on  an  embroidered 
black  silk  tea  gown,  and  a  heavy  gold  bracelet 
jangled  on  her  bare  arm  as  she  put  out  her  hand  to 
the  caller. 

"Don't  you  find  Galsworthy's  style  fascinating?" 
she  asked,  tapping  the  book  in  her  lap. 

"I  might  if  I'd  read  him,"  Alec  admitted  judici- 
ally. "Is  Eunice  at  home?  I  wanted  to  invite  her 
to  a  little  young  folks'  party  I'm  giving  to-morrow." 

"She's  in  her  room  with  a  headache,"  Mrs.  Weston 
replied.  "I  dare  say  she'd  see  you,  though,  if  you'd 
be  good  enough  to  pull  the  bell  cord." 

Alec  tweaked  the  long,  tasselled  cord  which  hung 
beside  the  marble  mantel,  as  in  a  stage  set  for  a 
French  drama,  and  far  off  somewhere  a  bell  tinkled 
faintly. 

"Lizzie,  tell  Miss  Eunice  Mr.  Farnum  would  like 
to  see  her,"  said  the  mother.  "Rap  quietly  on  her 
door." 

"Theo  retired  early  to-night,"  she  added  to  Alec, 
who  made  no  reply. 

When  Eunice  came  into  the  room,  he  saw  at  once 
that  she  had  been  suffering,  and  he  put  both  his 
hands  over  hers,  looking  her  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"  Come  to  invite  you  to  a  little  dinner  party  at  my 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  277 

shack  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "Sort  of  a  celebration 
of  Ruth  and  Rob's  return  for  the  summer.  There'll 
be  some  music — songs  and  things.  Margaret  Trask 
is  going  to  bring  her  violin.  Seven  o'clock." 

"I — I "  Eunice  hesitated,  not  wishing  to  hurt 

his  feelings. 

He  still  had  her  hand  in  his,  and  gave  it  a  little 
squeeze,  meanwhile,  with  his  back  to  Mrs.  Weston, 
winking  solemnly  at  her. 

She  dropped  her  eyes  and  coloured.  "I — I — you 
won't  need  me,  will  you,  mother?"  she  said. 

"Not  if  you're  such  a  help  to  me  as  you've  been 
this  evening,"  her  mother  answered  petulantly. 
"I've  had  to  read  to  myself,  and  it  hurts  my  eyes 
dreadfully." 

"But  think  of  the  style!"  said  Alec  maliciously, 
as  he  slipped  out. 

There  was  no  formality  at  Alec  Farnum's  dinners. 
When  he  and  Dr.  Tommy  Trask  weren't  teasing 
little  Miss  Millie  across  the  table,  or  Alec  wasn't 
telling  a  story,  or  Rob  Eliot  wasn't  riding  one  of  his 
hobbies  with  his  ingratiating  enthusiasm,  the  host 
led  Will  to  talk  of  Pittsburgh,  to  bring  him  into  the 
circle,  or  told  Eunice  with  great  gusto  how  he'd 
seen  two  little  girls  having  a  tea  party  above  the 
aristocratic  remains  of  Theophilus  the  First. 

"Isn't  he  committing  Use  majestS,  Miss  Weston?" 


278  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Doctor  Trask  inquired  slyly.  "Shall  I  throw  some- 
thing at  him?" 

"What's  the  use?"  she  laughed.  "He  has  no 
reverence  for  the  great  traditions.  As  long  as  he 
likes  me,  I  don't  care  what  he  says  about  my  an- 
cestors. I'd  like  to  forget  my  ancestors,  anyhow," 
she  added,  more  seriously. 

Alec  saw  Will  dart  a  covert  look  at  her,  and  he 
hoped  he  put  out  a  hand  beneath  the  tablecloth. 

So  the  dinner  went  gayly  on,  and  afterward  Ruth 
sang,  to  her  husband's  accompaniment,  while  the 
rest  had  their  coffee  on  the  veranda  the  other  side 
of  the  glass  doors,  and  after  that  Margaret  took  her 
violin  and  went  down  into  the  garden,  followed  by 
the  others.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the  light 
from  the  house  did  not  penetrate  far.  But,  under 
the  stars,  the  sanded  paths  were  visible,  and  the 
white  flowers. 

"  Go  lose  yourselves,  you  boob,"  Alec  laughed  into 
Will's  ear.  "Come,  Millie,"  he  said,  aloud,  "let's 
you  and  I  go  off  into  a  corner  and  get  sentimental 
while  Margaret  plays." 

"Alec,  I'll  slap  you  in  a  minute,"  the  little  woman 
giggled. 

Will  and  Eunice  had  slipped  away  before  the  wail 
and  throb  of  the  violin  rose  out  of  the  scented  dark- 
ness. Margaret  loved  to  play  in  the  dark,  and  for 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  279 

nearly  half  an  hour  she  kept  on,  invisible,  while  the 
guests,  invisible,  too,  whispered  softly  or  thought 
their  own  thoughts.  It  was  music  as  Alec  loved  it 
best,  and  he  smiled  happily  when,  at  the  close,  he 
saw  Will  and  Eunice  drawing  near  the  veranda  light, 
their  faces  strangely  happy. 

"Stay  behind — I  want  to  see  you  two,"  he  whis- 
pered as  the  rest  were  going. 

He  went  across  the  yard  with  Miss  Millie,  to  her 
door,  and  returned  to  stand  smiling  down  at  the  pair 
who  sat  together  in  the  swing  seat  on  his  porch. 

Will  rose.  "Mr.  Farnum,"  he  said,  "I've  asked 
Eunice  to  marry  me." 

"Hooray!"  cried  Alec. 

"But— but— she " 

"What's  the  matter,  Eunice?  Don't  you  love 
him?  Pittsburgh's  not  such  a  bad  place — after  you 
get  used  to  it,"  said  Alec. 

The  girl  looked  up,  first  at  one  man  and  then  at  the 
other.  She  seemed  curiously  frail  in  the  half  light, 
and  Alec  noted  again  how  much  less  elegantly  dressed 
she  was  than  her  mother.  Her  face  was  working 
miserably.  "I — I  love  him,"  she  said  simply.  "I 
think  he's  splendid.  But — but — how  can  I  leave 
mother  all  alone  here?  And — and  how  can  I  go 
through  what  I'd  have  to  go  through?  Oh,  you  don't 
know — you  can't  know!" 


280  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Alec  drew  a  chair  over  close  to  them,  and  sat 
down.  "I  knew  your  family  before  you  were  born, 
Eunice,"  he  said.  "I  used  to  play  with  your  father 
directly  under  the  portrait  of  Theophilus  the  Great. 
But  that's  hardly  to  the  point.  The  first  point  is 
that  Will  loves  you,  and  you  love  Will,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  they  both  agreed. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "that,  after  all,  is  the  great 
thing,  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  If  you  don't 
know  what  to  do  under  the  circumstances,  my  dear, 
I'd  be  inclined  to  doubt  if  you  really  love  him." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried,  close  to  tears.  "I  do,  I 
do!" 

"Then  your  first  duty  is  to  go  to  him,  to  go  with 
him.  To  have  any  doubts  about  that  is  to  question 
your  love  for  him." 

"You  make  it  sound  so  simple,"  she  said. 

"It  is  simple.  It  is  as  simple  as  a  bird's  flight  in 
the  spring.  'I  am  my  beloved's  and  he  is  mine.' 
It  is  the  law  of  lif e.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  decry  the 
beauties  or  the  duties  of  sacrifice.  But  I've  seen 
sacrifice  carried  to  a  point  where  it  becomes  a  vice, 
only  too  often,  in  our  corner  of  the  land.  Your 
mother,  after  all,  can  afford  to  get  somebody  else 
to  read  Galsworthy  to  her.  I  doubt  if  you  read  very 
well,  anyhow!" 

"I  don't,"  said  Eunice,  with  a  weak  little  laugh. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  281 

"She  does,  too!"  cried  Will. 

Alec  smiled.  "Come,  what  is  your  real  reason?'* 
he  demanded. 

"I— I  don't  dare  tell  mother.  She— she'll  tell 
Theo,"  the  girl  muttered  miserably.  "He — he's 
getting  worse  all  the  time.  Oh,  it's  awful  to  have 
to  confess  such  things  about  one's  own  family! 
But  he  and  mother  both  will  say  I  can't  marry  Will, 
and  Theo'll  make  a  dreadful  scene,  and  if  we  tried  to 
have  a  wedding,  he'd  break  it  up  somehow.  Oh, 
he's  capable  of  it  when  he's  not — not  himself!  I 
couldn't  stand  that.  Oh,  why  was  I  ever  born! 
An  hour  ago  when  Will  said  he  loved  me,  I  was  so 
happy,  so  happy!  I  didn't  think  of  what  it  meant 
till  we  came  back  to  the  lights." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  her  shoulders 
shook.  Will  put  his  arm  about  her,  his  own  face 
working. 

But  Alec  merely  rubbed  his  hands.  "A  great 
idea!"  he  said.  "You  shall  be  married  in  my  gar- 
den, with  Ruth  as  your  bridesmaid  and  Margaret 
to  play  the  wedding  march,  and  at  the  last  moment 
we'll  invite  your  mother  to  give  you  away.  If 
she  won't,  I  will.  How  soon  can  you  get  ready?" 

Eunice  looked  up,  startled.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  do 
that!"  she  cried.  "A  girl  ought  to  be  married  from 
her  own  house,  or  her  church.  And and  all  the 


282  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Westons  have  been  married  in  that  front  room — under 
the  portrait." 

"Oh,  damn  the  portrait,  and  all  the  Westons!" 
Alec  exclaimed,  sharply.  "Eunice,  I'm  losing  pa- 
tience with  you.  If  you  don't  love  Will  enough  to 
marry  him  in  the  middle  of  the  Bronx  Zoo,  you  don't 
love  him  at  all.  You're  just  a  trifler,  and  you  de- 
serve to  go  back  to  your  precious  portrait,  and  Will 
deserves  a  better  girl,  a  real,  energetic,  look-things- 
in-the-face,  middle-class  girl,  and  not  an  aristocrat 
with  what  Howdy  Parker  calls  lemonade  for 
blood." 

He  watched  the  effect  of  his  words,  and  saw 
Eunice  stiffen  up. 

"I— I'll  do  it!"  she  said.  "I'll  show  you  whether 
I  love  Will  or  not!" 

"You  darling!"  cried  Will,  and  kissed  her. 

"But  how  can  we  be  sure  Theo  won't  break  up  the 
wedding,  even  here?"  she  added,  with  a  return  of 
trouble.  "Mother'll  tell  him  as  soon  as  she  knows." 

"I  will  guarantee  protection,"  said  Alec  grimly. 

No  one  but  Ruth  and  Rob  Eliot  were  let  into  the 
secret.  There  was  little  time  to  prepare,  for  the 
wedding  was  set  for  the  following  week,  but  Ruth 
took  Eunice  in  hand,  and  helped  her  with  her  clothes. 
Rob  drove  them  in  his  little  car  to  Hampton,  a  small 
city  twenty  miles  away,  where  they  shopped  madly 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  283 

one  afternoon,  and  in  the  next  days  Eunice  spent 
all  the  time  she  could  in  Ruth's  room,  where  the 
manufacturing  process  was  going  on. 

"It's  pathetic,"  Ruth  told  Alec  one  evening. 
"Of  course,  I  always  knew  Mother  Weston  wore  all 
the  clothes  and  demanded  all  the  admiration  in  that 
house — but  I  never  knew  how  much  of  the  money 
that  worthless  Theo  got,  and  how  little  was  ever 
done  for  poor  Eunice.  Oh,  it's  so  New  England! 
Everything  for  the  boy!  Why,  after  I'd  got  her 
dress  pinned  to-day,  I  just  thought  I'd  try  her  hair  a 
different  way,  so  I  fixed  it  up  more  becoming,  and 
stuck  in  one  of  my  combs,  and  led  her  to  the  glass — 
and  she  just  broke  down  and  cried.  She  said  no- 
body'd  ever  done  that  for  her  in  her  life!  I  pretty 
nearly  cried,  too.  If  Will  Stone  isn't  good  to  her, 
he  deserves  to  be  shot." 

"He'll  be  good  to  her,  never  fear,"  said  Alec. 
"By  the  way,  tell  Rob  I  want  him  at  the  house  two 
hours  before  the  wedding,  without  fail,  before  that 
noon  train  from  North  Benton  gets  in." 

That  Mrs.  Weston  did  not  guess  something  unto- 
ward was  afoot  during  those  days  of  preparation 
either  shows  conclusively  her  self-absorption,  or 
proves  that  Eunice  developed  sudden  unexpected 
powers  of  defensive  deception — perhaps  it  proves  a 
little  of  both.  Theo  was  rather  worse  than  usual 


284  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

that  week,  demanding  much  of  his  unfortunate 
mother's  attention.  That  may  have  aided,  too. 
Eunice  avoided  him  all  she  could,  shrinking  from 
his  sneering  allusions  to  her  "soda  clerk  beau," 
and  looking  to  her  mother  for  a  protection  she  did 
not  receive. 

But  on  the  fateful  morning,  after  Theo  had  de- 
parted on  the  train  for  North  Benton,  she  stole 
into  her  mother's  room,  hesitating,  fearful,  wist- 
fully yearning  for  love  and  sympathy,  and  stammered 
out  her  confession — that  she  was  to  be  married  that 
afternoon  in  Alec  Farnum*s  garden. 

"And,  oh,  mother,  you  will  give  me  away,  won't 
you?  "  she  cried.  "  You  must,  mother,  you  must ! " 

She  sank  at  her  mother's  knees,  and  laid  entreat- 
ing arms  across  them. 

The  woman  lifted  the  sewing  she  was  engaged 
upon  out  from  under  her  daughter's  arms  and  testily 
smoothed  it,  before  she  replied. 

"You  are  not  going  to  be  married  to  that  Stone 
person  in  Alec  Farnum's  garden,  or  anywhere  else!" 
she  said.  "I'd  thank  Alec  Farnum  to  mind  his  own 
business!  It's  just  like  him.  Eunice,  you  won't 
leave  this  house  to-day !  I  forbid  it ! " 

Suddenly  she  rose,  flinging  off  the  girl's  arm  from 
her  lap,  and  started  toward  the  door. 

But  the  girl  was  quicker  than  she.    Her  pale  face 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  285 

had  gone  paler,  and  the  entreaty  left  her  eyes.  They 
were  flashing  now  as  she  blocked  the  way. 

"I'm  afraid,  mother,  that  I've  passed  the  age 
when  you  can  forbid  me,"  she  said.  "I  hoped — • 
you'll  never  know  how  I  hoped — that  you'd  come  to 
my  wedding — you,  my  own  mother!  But  at  least 
I  expect  to  be  there  myself." 

With  a  darting  motion  she  reached  the  door, 
snatched  the  key,  slammed  the  door  behind  her, 
and  forcing  it  to  stay  shut  with  all  her  strength 
against  her  mother's  weight,  turned  the  lock  on  the 
outside.  Then,  panting,  she  ran  to  her  own  room, 
where  her  bag  was  packed  (most  of  her  things  she 
had  contrived  to  smuggle  over  to  Ruth's  during  the 
week),  put  on  her  hat,  slipped  the  key  of  her  mother's 
room  into  her  water  pitcher,  seized  the  bag,  and  fled 
down  the  stairs.  Her  mother  was  pounding  the 
door  now,  and  Lizzie  was  hurrying  from  the  kitchen. 

"Mother  is  locked  in,"  she  said.  "You'll  find  the 
key  somewhere  in  the  house."  And,  leaving  the 
astonished  domestic  gaping  after  her,  she  ran  down 
the  path  and  hurried  up  the  road  to  Ruth's. 

But  her  mother  did  not  follow  her.  Doubtless 
it  took  Lizzie  some  time  to  find  the  key!  In  Ruth's 
chamber,  the  other  girl's  arms  about  her,  Ruth's 
baby  chattering  in  the  garden  below  as  he  dug  in  a 
sand  pile,  she  regained  some  composure,  and  was 


286  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

even  tempted  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea  before  she  was 
dressed  in  her  pretty  new  travelling  frock,  the 
choicest  frock  she  had  ever  possessed.  It  was  all  of 
Ruth's  designing,  and  seemed  to  take  five  years  off 
her  age.  But,  even  in  her  bridal  clothes,  she  sat 
during  the  hour  before  the  wedding,  while  Ruth 
dressed,  anything  but  the  happy  bride-to-be. 

Meanwhile  Rob  Eliot  had  followed  instructions 
and  gone  to  the  Bird  House  two  hours  in  advance. 

"This  silence  is  ominous.  Something  is  going  to 
happen,"  said  Alec.  "Do  you  see  that  coil  of  rope 
in  the  corner?  There's  a  free  noose  on  the  end. 
Also  a  large  bandanna  beside  it.  Note  their  position 
well,  please.  We  may  need  'em." 

Rob  grinned.     "I  get  you,"  he  answered. 

They  sat  at  the  window,  and  waited. 

"Here  he  comes  now!"  Rob  suddenly  exclaimed. 

"And  sober,  too!"  said  Alec.  "Watch  out  for 
squalls." 

Theo  Weston  did  not  even  knock  on  the  door, 
he  opened  it  and  strode  into  the  room. 

"You "  he  began. 

"People  usually  knock  when  they  come  to  my 
house,"  said  Alec  quietly. 

"Damn  you,  I'll  knock  in  a  way  you'll  not  like 
before  I'm  through!  Look  here,  my  mother  tells 
me  you've  butted  into  our  family  affairs  and  my 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  287 

sister's  going  to  be  married  here  this  afternoon. 
Well,  she's  not,  see?  You're  going  to  send  home 
your  damn  parson,  and  I'm  going  to  take  home  my 
sister." 

"Ami?  And  are  you?"  said  Alec.  "That  would 
be  interesting,  if  true." 

"You'll  find  out  whether  it's  true.  Do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  let  my  sister  marry  that  damn  soda 
clerk?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  have  him  for  a 
brother-in-law?  " 

"An  alliance  with  soda  would  be  strange  for  you, 
wouldn't  it?"  Alec  suggested. 

The  young  man  seemed  about  to  spring  at  him, 
and  Rob  intervened.  But  Alec  waved  Rob  aside. 

"He  won't  hit  me  till  he's  told  us  what  he's  going 
to  do  if  we  don't  send  home  the  parson,"  Alec  smiled. 

"I'll— I'll— by  God,  I'll " 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  yell,  and  a  man  passing 
in  a  wagon  looked  quickly  toward  the  house.  At 
the  same  time,  his  hand  went  toward  his  pocket. 

Alec,  with  the  quickness  of  a  cat,  a  quickness  his 
big  frame  did  not  suggest,  grabbed  the  youth's 
wrist  with  an  iron  grip.  "Time  now,  Rob,"  he  said, 
as  Theo  swung  at  him  with  his  free  arm.  Alec 
warded  off  the  blow,  and  before  another  could  come, 
the  noose  was  around  both  his  arms,  and  an  instant 
later  the  coils  were  wrapping  him  to  his  feet.  He 


288  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

started  to  shout,  and  Alec,  with  a  smile,  yanked  the 
gag  around  his  face. 

"Now,  let's  see  what  he's  got,"  he  said. 

Bob  felt  in  the  suspicious  pocket  and  drew  out 
an  automatic. 

The  Bird  House  Man  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"Drunk,  after  all,"  he  said.  "Drunk  and  crazy. 
Poor  fellow!" 

He  tossed  the  pistol  into  a  drawer,  and  then  he 
and  Rob,  picking  up  the  rope-wound  figure,  carried 
it  into  the  cellar,  tied  it  into  an  old  broken  chair  for 
further  precaution,  made  sure  the  gag  couldn't  work 
loose,  and  returned  to  the  library. 

Alec  was  shaking  his  head  still.  "A  pistol!" 
he  repeated.  "I  never  thought  it  would  come  to 
that.  Poor,  poor  fellow!" 

"He'll  have  to  be  sent  somewhere  for  treatment," 
Rob  exclaimed.  "  Why,  he's  not  safe  at  large." 

"He'll  have  to  be  watched,  surely.  Whew! 
That  was  more  than  I  bargained  for.  But  we've 
got  to  get  Eunice  out  of  this,  anyhow.  Come, 
come,  let's  wash  up  and  straighten  our  ties!  They 
say  everything's  fair  in  love  and  war." 

"Which  is  this?"  Rob  laughed. 

"Hanged  if  I  know!"  said  Alec. 

There  was  no  one  at  the  wedding  but  the  minister, 
Margaret  Trask,  Will's  father,  Alec,  Rob,  and  Ruth. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  289 

Ruth  walked  over  with  Eunice.  The  rest  had  ar- 
rived casually,  and  no  suspicion  had  been  aroused. 

"Did — did  mother  come?"  Eunice  whispered  to 
the  Bird  House  Man. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  but  probably  Theo 
wouldn't  let  her.  Never  mind,  dear.  Remember, 
it's  Will  that  counts  now." 

'  'And  Theo  ? ' '  She  glanced  about  like  a  frightened 
animal. 

"I  can  give  you  my  solemn  oath  he'll  not  disturb 
us." 

So  Eunice,  very  pale,  leaned  on  Alec  Farnum's 
arm  and  walked  up  the  path  to  the  hidden  throb  of 
Margaret's  violin,  to  meet  Will  Stone  who  stood 
with  Rob  and  the  minister  beneath  a  trellis  riotous 
with  Dorothy  Perkins  roses.  It  was  a  hushed  and 
solemn  wedding,  but  when  the  last  words  were 
spoken  and  Eunice  put  her  lips  to  Will's,  a  song 
sparrow  in  a  tree  close  by  suddenly  pealed  out  a 
cascade  of  notes,  and  Alec  smiled. 

A  moment  later  a  car  came  up  the  drive,  and  Will 
laughed  gayly. 

"From  Hampton!"  he  cried.  "We're  going  out 
in  style.  We'll  catch  a  train  somewhere,  some  time 
— but  not  at  Southmead  station!" 

Alec  kissed  Eunice,  and  she  clung  to  him  like  a 
child.  She  clung  longer  to  Ruth,  running  back 


290  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

twice  to  kiss  her,  and  then,  while  Mrs.  Plumb  sud- 
denly appeared  and  hurled  an  old  shoe  from  the 
kitchen  door,  the  motor  moved  out  of  the  yard  and 
disappeared  up  the  road,  away  from  the  village. 
The  guests  departed,  all  but  Ruth  and  Rob. 

"Rob  and  I  have  one  job  left,"  said  Alec  to  Ruth. 
"You  run  along,  too." 

The  two  men  descended  to  the  cellar  and  brought 
Theo  up  again.  They  stood  him  in  the  hall,  removed 
the  gag,  and  cut  the  rope.  Then,  as  he  stood  free 
and  wheeled  on  them,  Alec  said  quietly:  "Theo, 
you'd  better  go  before  you  speak.  You  did  a  very 
foolish,  a  very  rash,  a  very  dangerous  thing  here  this 
afternoon.  Your  father  and  I  were  old  friends. 
I  don't  want  to  be  any  more  ashamed  of  his  son  than 
I  am  now!" 

The  young  man  opened  his  lips,  but  no  word  passed 
them.  He  suddenly  strode  out  and  down  the  steps. 

"Now  you  can  go,  too,  Rob,"  said  Alec. 

"I  don't  like  to,  Uncle  Alec.  He  might  come 
back." 

"No,"  the  Bird  House  Man  smiled.  "He  won't. 
But  his  mother  will.  That's  more  terrifying  but 
less  dangerous." 

She  did  not  come  till  evening,  when  the  darkness 
made  her  visit  less  conspicuous.  Her  mouth  was 
set  in  a  thin,  straight  line,  and  her  eyes  were  blazing. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  291 

"I've  come  to  settle  a  few  scores  with  you,  Alec 
Farnum!"  she  said,  in  a  taut  voice  that  sounded 
like  a  wire  stretched  almost  to  the  snapping  point. 

Alec  motioned  her  to  a  seat,  but  she  scorned 
it. 

"First,  can  you  give  me  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't 
have  you  arrested  for  locking  my  son  up  in  your  dirty 
cellar?  Assault  and  battery,  I  believe  they  call 
it." 

"Yes,  Lucy,  I  can  give  you  several  reasons,"  the 
man  replied.  "But  please  sit  down." 

She  stamped  her  foot  angrily.  "Go  on,  give 
them!"  she  cried.  "But  I  tell  you  now,  I'm  going 
to  have  you  arrested,  anyway.  First  my  own 
daughter  locks  me  for  an  hour  in  my  chamber,  while 
she  elopes  with  a  village  nobody,  and  then  you  kid- 
nap my  son!  A  pretty  state  of  affairs!  And  it's 
all  your  doing." 

Alec  couldn't  repress  a  chuckle.  "Eunice  did 
that?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Delicious ! " 

"Don't  add  to  your  insults,  please,"  the  woman 
said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Alec  apologized.  "I 
couldn't  help  a  certain  amusement  at  the  changes 
love  wrought  in  meek  little  Eunice.  Lucy,  I  want 
to  talk  with  you.  You  make  it  very  difficult,  stand- 
ing up  that  way." 


292  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Oh,  very  well,'*  she  snapped,  sitting  abruptly 
on  the  edge  of  the  stiff  est  chair.  "Now  say  your 
say." 

"I  played  mud  pies  and  marbles  with  Theo's 
father,"  Alec  went  on.  "I  went  to  college  in  the 
same  class  with  him.  I  tramped  through  Switzer- 
land with  him.  Perhaps  I  may  be  pardoned  a  nat- 
ural interest  in  his  family." 

"If  I  hadn't  thought  so,  I'd  hardly  be  here  now," 
said  Mrs.  Weston. 

"Exactly.  Well,  Lucy,  I  plead  guilty  to  all  you 
charge  me  with.  I  meddled  in  your  affairs.  I  gave 
my  dinner  party  to  let  Will  Stone  have  a  chance  to 
ask  Eunice  to  marry  him,  a  chance  he  couldn't  get 
in  her  own  mother's  house — you  know  best  why. 
People  like  Will  Stone  have  their  pride,  too,  Lucy, 
strange  as  it  may  seem.  Having  no  ancestors,  they 
take  pride  in  themselves  and  their  ambitions  and 
accomplishments.  Not  a  bad  substitute,  really." 

The  woman  sniffed.     "We  won't  discuss  him" 

"But  he's  rather  necessary  to  the  plot,"  Alec 
smiled.  "More  than  giving  him  the  chance  to 
propose,  and  furnishing  a  violin  obbligato,  I  screwed 
Eunice's  resolution  up  to  the  point  of  accepting 
him,  and  when  she  didn't  dare  tell  you  and  ask  to 
have  the  wedding  in  her  own  mother's  house,  I 
offered  her  mine.  I  thought  my  garden  was  a  better 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  293 

place  than  the  city  clerk's  office  in  Hampton  Don't 
you,  Lucy?" 

The  woman  made  no  reply. 

"I  did  all  this  because  I  wanted  to  see  Eliot 
Weston's  little  girl  happy.  Will  Stone's  a  fine, 
ambitious,  honourable  fellow,  and  Eunice  loved 
him.  She  hasn't  your  acute  sense  of  Weston  su- 
periority, Lucy.  I'm  afraid  you  took  so  much  time 
imparting  that  to  Theo  that  you  rather  neglected 
the  girl  child." 

"Aren't  you  wandering  from  the  subject,  Alec?" 
the  woman  asked  icily. 

"Wandering  toward  it,"  he  smiled.  "Now  we 
come  to  Theo.  I  won't  mince  matters  with  you. 
You  must  have  telegraphed  him  to  come  home  by 
the  noon  train  when  you  heard  of  the  wedding.  You 
wanted  him  to  stop  it,  because  you  didn't  want  to 
make  a  public  scene  yourself." 

"I  wanted  him  to  stop  it  because  he's  my  son — 
he's  the  male  Weston  of  our  line,"  the  woman  an- 
swered, with  a  touch  of  pathetic  dignity.  "It  was 
his  place  to  stop  it." 

Alec  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  pityingly,  too. 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  "I've  got  to  hurt  you.  We've 
come  to  serious  matters.  It  isn't  serious  that  Eunice 
has  married  the  man  she  loves.  You'll  get  one  of 
those  trained-nurse  companions,  and  never  miss  her 


294  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

in  a  month.  It  would  only  have  been  serious  if 
she  hadn't  married,  but  broken  her  heart,  instead. 
But  Theo  we  have  with  us  still.  When  you  sent 
him  here  to  stop  the  wedding,  did  you  tell  him  how  to 
do  it?  And  was  ke  sober?  " 

"He  went  straight  from  the  train,"  she  answered 
weakly.  "J  got  him  on  the  telephone  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  soon  as  I  could  get  out  of  my  room,  and  he 
promised  me  to — to  behave.  I — I  trusted  his  being 
a  Weston  would  tell  him  what  to  do." 

Obviously  she  was  worried  to  hear  what  he  had  done, 
and  Alec  paused  thoughtfully  before  he  spoke  again. 

"No,  it's  no  use  blinking  facts,"  he  said  after  a 
moment.  Opening  the  drawer,  he  took  out  the 
automatic  and  let  it  fall  with  a  metallic  thud  on  the 
desk.  "Your  son  came  into  my  house  with  that  in 
his  pocket,"  he  continued,  as  the  mother  shrank 
back  with  a  horrified  exclamation. 

"Oh,  it  was  just  bluff!"  she  cried.  "He  wouldn't 
have  used  it,  he  wouldn't  have  used  it!" 

"Hardly  a  safe  thing  to  bluff  with  for  people 
whose  fingers  habitually  tremble  from  liquor,"  said 
Alec  grimly.  "Your  son  had  been  drinking  before 
he  came  here.  I  thought  we'd  all  feel  a  little  more 
comfortable  if  he  were  put  in  a  secluded  spot  till 
the  ceremony  was  over.  Are  you  still  angry  with  me 
for  doing  it?  " 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  295 

He  looked  at  the  woman,  who  had  shrunk  back 
into  the  chair,  the  look  of  horror  still  on  her  face. 
He  realized  that  Eunice  had  gone  completely  from 
her  mind.  Her  thoughts  now  were  all  on  her  son. 

"Oh,  Alec,"  she  moaned,  "he  never  meant  to 
use  it !  What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do  for  him?  " 

"I  can  tell  you  what  you  could  have  done,  more 
easily,"  the  Bird  House  Man  replied.  "  You  brought 
him  up  a  pampered  fledgling.  You  condoned  his 
weaknesses  and  you  put  no  iron  into  him.  You  never 
trained  his  will.  But  to-day,  Lucy,  he's  sick,  he's 
sick  of  body  and  of  soul.  You  need  a  wiser  doctor 
than  I." 

"But  for  his  father's  sake  you'll  help  me,"  the 
woman  said.  "He's  my  son.  He's  all  I've  got!" 
Her  wrath  was  gone,  and  all  her  haughtiness.  She 
sat  before  him  in  pleading  misery. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  Alec  answered  hon- 
estly. "A  terrific  attack  of  repentance,  a  Salvation 
Army  conversion,  is  what  he  really  needs.  Howdy 
Parker  says  no  man  can  be  reformed  who  doesn't 
want  to  reform." 

"You  are  not  comparing  my  son  with  Howdy 
Parker?"  the  woman  demanded,  with  a  touch  of  her 
habitual  manner. 

"Only  with  apologies  to  Howdy,"  it  was  on  Alec's 
lips  to  answer  but  he  refrained.  "Psychology 


296  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

knows  no  class  distinctions,  Lucy,"  he  replied.  "You 
must  get  Theo's  poor,  weak  will  on  the  right  side 
first,  for  it's  that  alone  which  can  win  the  fight. 
And  the  liquor  has  got  to  be  boiled  out  of  him  some- 
how, by  a  doctor  who  knows  about  such  matters. 
He  needs  work,  too,  real  physical  work,  and  the 
right  companions.  Perhaps  on  a  ranch  out  West, 
or  an  Arctic  expedition " 

"You  mean,  send  him  away  from  me?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  From  the  Riley  House,  and  this  bluff  at  working 
he  now  goes  through,  at  any  rate,"  said  Alec.  "  Lucy, 
you  don't  really  love  even  Theo.  You  love  your- 
self." 

"You  shan't  talk  to  me  that  way!" 

"As  you  like."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
think  I've  meddled  enough  with  the  house  of  Wes- 
ton." 

He  let  the  automatic  drop  noisily  back  into  the 
drawer,  and  slammed  the  drawer  shut  again  with  an 
air  of  finality. 

The  woman  rose  at  the  noise,  with  a  shudder. 
"Pardon  me,  Alec,"  she  said  humbly.  "I  do  love 
my  son.  Will — will  you  help  me  to  find  the  right 
doctor?  I'll — I'll  do  whatever  he  says,  if  it  breaks 
my  heart." 

Alec  took  her  hand.      "Of  course,"  he  answered 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  297 

gently.  "I'll  begin  the  search  to-morrow.  And  let 
us  hope  it  mends  Theo's  heart  instead  of  breaking 
yours." 

Then  he  saw  her  to  the  door. 

He  came  back  into  his  study,  sighed  wearily,  and 
lit  his  pipe. 

"Thank  God,"  he  said  aloud,  "Eunice  married 
into  the  middle  classes!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL 

"HOWDY,  Alec." 

"Howdy  Howdy,"  answered  Alec  Farnum,  glancing 
up  from  his  work-bench  to  the  figure  that  stood  in 
the  shop  door.  "  Come  in  out  of  the  rain,  Howdy," 
he  added,  "if  you  know  enough  to!" 

The  man  gesticulated  toward  the  garden.  "  *  Thou 
waterest  the  ridges  thereof  abundantly;  Thou  set- 
tlest  the  furrows  thereof,  Thou  makest  it  soft  with 
showers,'"  he  quoted,  with  unction.  "Fine  month, 
April." 

As  he  stepped  into  the  shop,  his  dirty  old  brown 
leather  coat  and  still  older  corduroy  trousers  drip- 
ping, Alec  caught  the  stinging  smell  of  whiskey, 
but  he  gave  no  sign.  "Been  fishing  yet,  Howdy?" 
he  asked. 

"Well,  it's  April  the  second,  ain't  it?"  the  man 
replied,  removing  a  battered  felt  hat  and  shaking  the 
water  from  the  brim.  His  hair  was  thin  and  shot 
with  gray,  and  the  stubble  of  beard  on  his  thin  cheeks 
was  gray,  too,  and  his  nose  betrayed  his  proclivities. 
But  with  his  hat  off,  if  you  looked  at  him  carefully, 

298 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  299 

you  saw  that  his  forehead  was  fine,  and  that  his 
pale-blue  eyes  were  clear  and  far-seeing,  the  eyes 
of  a  woodsman. 

"The  ice  went  out  early  this  year.  There  ought 
to  be  some  good  trout,"  Alec  hazarded. 

"You  might  think  so,"  answered  the  man.  "Still, 
every  brook's  fished  to  death  these  days.  Fishing 
ain't  what  it  was  when  you  'n'  I  were  kids,  Alec, 
'n'  hooked  trout  off  the  railroad  bridge." 

"We  aren't  what  we  were  then,  either,  Howdy," 
Alec  said,  giving  the  other  a  keen  look. 

"'Wilt  Thou  break  a  leaf  driven  to  and  fro? 
And  wilt  Thou  pursue  the  dry  stubble?'"  the  man 
answered  dryly. 

He  put  his  hat  down  on  a  bench,  slowly  plunged 
a  hand  into  one  of  the  capacious  pockets  of  his 
leather  coat,  and  brought  it  forth  grasping  the  shin- 
ing, speckled  body  of  a  twelve-inch  trout.  He  laid 
the  fish  on  the  bench,  and  plunged  into  the  pocket 
again,  bringing  out  another  trout.  A  third  followed, 
and  then  as  many  from  the  other  outer  pocket, 
and  finally  half  a  dozen  more  from  some  mysterious 
space  between  the  lining  and  the  leather. 

"There's  a  few'll  make  you  a  mess  or  two,"  said 
he.  "I  kinder  thought  you  might  have  a  hankering 
for  a  taste  o'  trout,  now  the  streams  are  runnin'. 
If  you  were  half  the  man  you  once  was  you  wouldn't 


300  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

be  in  here  makin'  dinky  houses  for  the  little  birdies. 
You'd  be  up  Roaring  Brook  with  a  rod." 

Alec  laughed  as  he  picked  up  one  of  the  cool, 
glistening  fish  from  the  bench  and  held  it  lovingly  in 
his  hand.  "I  don't  seem  to  need  to  while  you're 
on  the  job,  Howdy,"  he  replied. 

"Hell,"  said  Howdy,  "a  man  don't  ketch  'em  to 
eat!  You're  one  of  those  *  whose  end  is  destruction, 
whose  God  is  their  belly.' " 

"Maybe  so."  Alec  laughed  again.  "Still,  are 
you  going  to  help  get  my  garden  started  this  month? 
I'm  needing  some  extra  help." 

"I'm  needing  a  bit  o'  coin,"  said  Howdy.  "The 
old  keg's  pretty  near  empty." 

"To-morrow?" 

"O.K    So  long,  Alec." 

"So  long,  Howdy." 

The  tall,  lank  figure  slouched  out  into  the  spring 
shower  again,  and  Alec  presently  took  the  fish  in  to 
Mrs.  Plumb,  his  housekeeper,  reserving  four  nice 
ones,  however,  which  he  put  on  a  plate  and  carried 
over  to  Miss  Millie  Tilton,  his  approach  being 
heralded  by  the  excited  barking  of  Siegfried. 

Miss  Millie  received  them  in  a  fluster  of  delight, 
which  was  somewhat  dashed  when  she  learned  who 
had  caught  them. 

"That — that  drunk  /"  she  exclaimed. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  301 

"Oh,  not  a  drunk,  Millie,"  said  Alec.  "You 
must  learn  to  make  nicer  distinctions.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  Howdy  Parker  drunk." 

"Well,  I  never  saw  him  sober." 

"That  may  be,  but  you  never  saw  him  drunk, 
either.  He's  merely  perpetually  mellowed." 

"He's  a  disgrace  to  the  name  he  bears,"  Miss 
Millie  sniffed.  "Think  who  his  father  was — the 
most  respected  doctor  in  this  county!  Howard 
might  have  gone  to  college  as  you  did,  Alec;  I  guess 
the  old  doctor  left  enough  for  that.  And,  instead, 
he  just  drank  it  all  up,  and  lives  in  that — that  hovel 
out  there  on  the  Muddy  Brook  Road,  and  just  works 
enough  to  buy  himself  rum!  It  makes  me  so  mad 
whenever  I  think  of  him!" 

"He  reads  his  Bible,"  Alec  smiled. 

"Humph!"  the  little  spinster  sniffed.  "Reads 
his  Bible,  yes,  and  swears  when  he's  quoting  it,  and 
never  sets  foot  in  a  church!" 

"He  has  a  real  reverence  for  it,  though,"  Alec 
replied,  "if  not  an  orthodox  reverence.  He  rever- 
ences its  beauty,  and  he  quotes  the  Psalms  some- 
times with  the  same  expression  I've  seen  on  his  face 
when  he  was  listening  to  the  wind  in  the  pines,  or  the 
falls  of  Roaring  Brook.  Life  is  a  funny  thing,  Millie, 
as  many  people  have  observed.  Soberness  and 
industry,  while  they  are  most  estimable  qualities, 


802  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

do  not  always  make  for  charm.  Take  the  case  of 
— no,  we'll  mention  no  names.  On  the  other  hand, 
poor  old  Howdy,  in  his  hermit's  shack  out  there  by 
Muddy  Brook,  pleasantly  pickled,  with  a  pocket  full 
of  fish,  sitting  by  the  door  in  the  twilight  and  play- 
ing his  piccolo,  always  reminds  me  of  a  whip-poor- 
will  on  the  village  edge,  a  brown,  homely,  wistful 
whip-poor-will.  And  I've  a  soft  spot  in  my  heart 
for  whip-poor-wills." 

"You've  too  many  soft  spots  in  your  heart,  Alec," 
said  Miss  Millie  sagely. 

"But  none  for  your  abominable  Bologna!"  Alec 
suddenly  roared.  "That  beast  was  scratching  up 
my  early  peas  this  morning.  If  it  happens  again, 
into  the  sausage  machine  he  goes!" 

And  he  slammed  out  of  the  house,  leaving  the 
little  woman  grinning  behind  him 

But  he  thought  more  than  once  of  Howdy  in  the 
next  few  days,  as  the  lank,  brown  form  worked  in  his 
garden.  Alec  was  busy  with  some  bird-box  orders, 
and  could  not  work  in  the  garden  himself,  greatly 
to  his  regret,  but  he  went  out  frequently  to  give  di- 
rections. Howdy,  he  could  not  help  noticing,  was 
visibly  aging.  Alec  and  he  had  been  boys  together, 
but  he  looked  the  older  man  now  by  at  least  ten 
years. 

"Whiskey    and    loneliness,"    thought   Alec,    and 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  303 

wondered  again,  as  he  had  wondered  so  many  times 
in  the  past,  if  there  were  nothing  he  could  do  to  alter 
Howdy's  mode  of  life.  Certainly  he  could  if  any- 
body. In  fact,  he  alone  of  the  Southmead  people 
with  whom  Howdy  should  normally  have  associated 
still  treated  him  as  if  he  were  old  "Doc"  Parker's 
son.  And  it  was  to  Alec  alone  that  Howdy  ever 
spoke  in  terms  of  intellectual  intercourse.  He  had  a 
certain  rough  comradeship  of  the  woods  with  the 
boys  and  men  who  hunted  or  fished,  and  with  the 
poachers;  but  even  with  them  he  was  reserved. 
And  in  his  intercourse  with  the  village  people  he 
had  developed  a  certain  ironic  and  defiant  scorn- 
fulness  which  irritated  everybody,  as  he  probably 
meant  it  should.  He  particularly  enjoyed  quoting 
Scripture  to  the  pious.  Once  more  Alec  shook  his 
head  at  the  hopelessness  of  the  task.  The  man  was 
a  born  solitary,  an  anarchist  like  Thoreau — without 
Thoreau's  genius.  And  yet  Alec  could  not  help 
being  vaguely  troubled  by  the  recollection  that  when 
he  left  Southmead  as  a  youth,  to  go  to  college  and 
then  to  study  and  travel  abroad  for  three  or  four 
years,  he  had  left  Howdy,  the  companion  of  his 
boyhood  expeditions  in  the  woods,  a  high-hearted, 
romantic  youngster — and  had  returned  to  find  him, 
as  Miss  Millie  would  say,  a  drunk.  He  had  often 
speculated  on  the  transition  process  which  must  have 


304  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

taken  place,  and  for  which  the  village  could  assign 
no  reason  but  natural  cussedness  and  the  money  his 
father  left  him.  But  Alec's  few  attempts  to  draw 
a  revelation  from  Howdy  himself  had  met  with  such 
a  reception  that  he  had  long  ago  abandoned  them. 
Yet  the  man  was  so  evidently  aging  now!  He  so 
evidently  needed  to  knock  off  on  the  whiskey,  and 
probably  to  have  better  food,  and  at  more  regular 
hours!  Alec  was  troubled  by  him,  and  let  his  work 
stand  still  while  he  watched,  from  the  door  of  his 
shop,  the  spare  brown  figure  cultivating  the  rose 
beds,  his  dirty  old  felt  hat  pushed  back  from  his 
fine  forehead  which  had  begun  to  show  the  hollows 
in  the  temples. 

Alec  went  out  into  the  fields  and  woods  a  day  or 
two  later,  to  look  for  myrtle  warblers,  the  first  of  the 
large  and  intricate  warbler  family  to  migrate.  He 
was  proposing  that  spring  to  carry  on  his  study  of 
warblers,  especially  of  their  migration  habits,  and  if 
possible  to  enlarge  his  list  of  varieties  which  passed 
through  Southmead  and  its  vicinity.  But  he  had 
not  forgotten  Howdy,  and  toward  twilight  he  bent 
his  steps  around  the  hill  beyond  Muddy  Brook,  and 
came  down  into  the  flats  near  Howdy's  cabin. 
Muddy  Brook  flowed  sluggishly  through  alders  and 
open  patches  of  meadow  grass,  and  the  redwing 
blackbirds  were  darting  about.  The  road  which 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  305 

bordered  the  swamp  was  little  used,  leading  only 
to  one  or  two  outlying  farms.  Howdy's  cabin,  a 
small,  two-room  affair  which  he  had  built  himself 
long  years  ago,  was  gray  against  the  hillside  birches, 
for  it  was  perched  a  hundred  feet  from  the  road,  on 
the  upper  side.  A  thin  column  of  smoke  was  ascend- 
ing straight  up  from  the  fieldstone  chimney  for  a 
long  distance,  and  then  feathering  out  like  the  ghost 
of  a  capital  T.  This  smoke  was  tinged  faintly 
salmon  with  sunset.  As  Alec  drew  near  he  heard  the 
reedy  notes  of  Howdy's  piccolo,  quaintly  appro- 
priate to  this  lonesome  spot  and  the  sad,  quiet  end 
of  day. 

A  dog  suddenly  barked,  the  music  stopped,  and 
both  Howdy  and  the  dog  appeared  in  the  door. 

"Howdy, Howdy,"  Alec  called,  "and  howdy,  Spot." 

"Howdy,  Alec,"  said  the  man,  with  no  sign  of 
surprise. 

The  dog,  an  ancient  setter,  recognizing  the  visitor, 
stopped  barking  and  began  to  wag  his  tail. 

"Just  getting  supper,"  said  Howdy.  "Come  in 
and  hev  some?" 

"Believe  I  will.  You  don't  happen  to  have  a 
telephone,  so  I  can  square  myself  with  Mrs.  Plumb, 
do  you?" 

"I  ain't  got  a  telephone,  and  I  ain't  got  a  million 
dollars,  nor  a  butler  in  buttons,  either,"  Howdy  re- 


306  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

plied.  "Let  Mrs.  Plumb  wait.  'They  also  serve 
who  only  stand  and  wait.'" 

"That's  not  from  the  Bible,"  Alec  laughed,  step- 
ping into  the  cabin. 

"It's  not  so  far  from  it,  at  that,"  said  Howdy. 
"Old  Milton  was  soaked  in  Scripture.  I'm  that 
much  like  Milton." 

The  room  which  Alec  had  entered  was  a  quaint 
place.  The  walls,  neither  plastered  nor  papered, 
were  of  well-fitted  but  rough,  unpainted  boards. 
Upon  them  hung  half  a  dozen  old  steel  engravings, 
The  Marriage  of  Pocahontas,  The  First  Prayer  in 
Congress,  and  others  which  Alec  remembered  had 
once  hung  in  old  Doctor  Parker's  house.  Against 
one  wall  was  a  beautiful  mahogany  clawfoot  settle 
with  frayed,  moth-eaten,  green  upholstery.  The 
centre  table,  beneath  a  cheap  brass  lamp  suspended 
from  the  ceiling,  was  also  mahogany.  There  were 
two  battered  Chippendale  chairs.  In  the  centre 
of  the  end  wall  was  a  huge  fireplace,  and  at  one  side 
of  it  a  rusty  sink  with  pails  of  water  on  a  rough  board 
bench,  and  a  few  cooking  dishes  hung  on  pegs.  On 
the  other  side  was  a  small  battered  range,  which 
communicated  with  the  chimney  by  a  crooked 
stovepipe  A  corner  cupboard,  also  of  mahogany, 
with  several  broken  panes  in  the  doors,  contained  a 
quaint  array  of  old  blue  china,  cheap  white  ware, 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  307 

whiskey  bottles,  and  fishing  tackle.  A  small  book- 
case full  of  books  completed  the  furniture.  There 
was  a  door  into  Howdy 's  sleeping-room.  He  went 
through  this  door  and  came  back  with  three  eggs 
and  hah*  a  loaf  of  bread. 

"That's  my  pantry,"  he  said.  "Cooler  hi  there. 
Sit  down,  Alec.  'Tain't  often  my  humble  abode  is 
honoured  by  the  rich  and  great." 

Alec  sat  down,  and  the  dog  came  and  laid  his 
muzzle  on  the  visitor's  knee,  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  wistful  setter  eyes.  Howdy  bustled  about 
in  silence.  From  a  drawer  beneath  the  cupboard  he 
produced  a  quaint  old  leather  box,  plush  lined,  and 
from  it  he  extracted  silver  spoons  and  a  knife  and 
fork.  These  he  carried  to  the  sink,  with  an  old  blue 
china  plate,  cup,  and  saucer,  and  carefully  washed 
them  all,  bringing  them  back  to  the  table.  Then  he 
began  the  making  of  an  omelette  and  the  frying  of 
bacon,  two  operations  he  carried  on  simultaneously 
with  great  deftness.  The  loaf  of  baker's  bread  he 
put  on  a  blue  platter  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  took 
the  iron  kettle  from  the  coals  in  the  fireplace  and 
filled  the  teapot,  and  then,  with  an  angular  gesture 
meant  to  be  magnificent,  invited  Alec  to  the  groan- 
ing board. 

"'Ye  may  eat  and  drink  at  my  table,  in  my  king- 
dom,' "  said  he. 


308  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"I  consider  it  an  honour,"  said  Alec. 

"At  least,  it's  something  few  do,"  Howdy  replied 
dryly.  "If  I  hadn't  been  grubbing  all  the  week  in 
your  silly  garden,  I'd  have  had  some  nice  fried  trout 
for  you." 

"But  this  omelette  is  delicious.  Where'd  you  get 
the  eggs? 

"You  didn't  know  I  kept  hens,  did  you?" 

"No,"  said  Alec. 

"Well,  I  don't." 

"Why  do  you  try  to  fool  me?"  Alec  laughed  at 
him.  "You  know  you  never  stole  anything  in  your 
life  except  apples  and  fish.  You're  probably  buying 
'em  of  some  old  woman  at  twice  the  market  price, 
to  help  keep  her  off  the  town." 

Howdy  looked  up  sharply,  suddenly  sobered. 
"How'd  you  know  that?"  he  demanded. 

"I  know  you,  old  chap,"  Alec  smiled.  "Who  is  it, 
Mrs.  Snyder,  up  on  Bear  Mountain?" 

Howdy  gave  a  grudging  and  shamefaced  nod, 
and  went  quickly  over  to  the  stove  for  more  bacon. 

"Do  you  always  live  as  well  as  this?"  Alec  asked, 
changing  the  subject.  "As  an  omelette  maker 
you're  a  wonder." 

Howdy  shrugged  his  shoulders.  ' '  Pends  on  how 
I  feel,"  he  answered.  "Latterly,  sometimes,  I'm 
too — too — well,  I  guess  too  damn  lazy  to  get  much 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  309 

supper.  I'm  not  so  spry  as  I  used  to  be.  Come 
nightfall,  and  I'm  sorter  tired.  Whiskey's  easier, 
and  'bout  as  cheap." 

"I  never  lectured  you,  and  I'm  not  going  to  now," 
Alec  said.  "But  you  know  yourself  whiskey's  not 
the  proper  fuel  for  the  human  engine.  You  need 
three  square  meals  a  day,  that  you  don't  have  to 
fuss  to  cook  yourself.  Why  don't  you  cut  out  the 
Thoreau  act,  Howdy,  for  a  while,  and  get  back  a 
few  of  the  years  you've  lost  on  me.  Ten  years  ago 
you  could  walk  me  off  my  feet.  To-day  I  can  leave 
you  by  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — maybe 
earlier." 

"Can  you  now!"  said  Howdy,  bristling  up.  Then 
he  slumped  again  into  his  chair.  "Yes,  you  can, 
for  a  fact,"  he  added.  "Howsomever,  'one  dieth 
in  his  full  strength,  being  wholly  at  ease  and  quiet. 
His  breasts  are  full  of  milk  and  his  bones  are  mois- 
tened with  marrow.  And  another  dieth  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  soul,  and  never  eateth  with  pleas- 
ure. They  shall  lie  down  alike  in  the  dust,  and  the 
worms  shall  cover  them.' >; 

He  lapsed  suddenly  into  gloomy  silence,  his  chin 
on  his  breast,  and  Alec,  silent  also,  watched  him. 

Then  he  suddenly  raised  his  head  with  a  laugh. 
"I'd  be  a  star  boarder  at  Sarah  Chandler's,  wouldn't 
I,  among  those  damn  pious  hypocrites?  And  she'd 


310  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

be  likely  to  take  me,  wouldn't  she?  Well,  well,  this 
ain't  washing  the  dishes!" 

He  got  up,  took  a  bottle  from  the  cupboard, 
poured  himself  out  a  drink,  and  then  began  to  clear 
the  table.  Alec  helped  him.  After  the  dishes  were 
washed,  the  two  men,  with  the  dog  between  them, 
went  out  in  front  of  the  cabin  and  looked  at  the 
evening  star  hanging  in  the  west  above  the  dim  alders 
and  the  far  line  of  hills.  The  world  was  very  still  save 
for  a  lone  song  sparrow  singing  a  good-night  song 
and  the  shrill  chorus  of  the  hylas  from  the  swamp,  a 
bell-like  chorus  which  beat  in  regular  waves  of  sound. 

"So  you  want  me  to  leave  my  cabin,  and  be  a  re- 
formed character?"  said  Howdy  slowly.  "You 
know's  well  as  I  do,  Alec,  that  I  don't  wanter  re- 
form. And  you  oughter  know  better'n  I  do  that 
nobody  who  don't  wanter  reform  can  reform.  It 
ain't  reform  unless  you  want  it.  I  know  what  the 
town  goodies  think  o'  me — most  of  'em  being  a  lot 
o'  conventions  on  spindle  legs  that  never  dared 
follow  a  natural  impulse  in  their  lemonade-coloured 
lives!  They  think  I've  disgraced  my  family  name, 
for  one  thing.  Well,  maybe  I  have,  though  there's 
something  they  don't  know.  My  precious  daddy 
kept  more  than  medicine  in  his  old  walnut  cabinet. 
However,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  don't 
have  to  invoke  Darwin  to  justify  my  thirst,  though 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  311 

they  do  say  the  gin  of  the  father  shall  be,  visited  on 
the  children." 

Howdy  laughed  dryly  at  his  joke.  "I'd  like  to 
tell  that  one  to  Tom  Hall  in  the  bank,"  he  chuckled. 
"I  sure  love  to  put  a  nice  stick  of  scriptural  dynamite 
under  his  piety." 

Then  he  grew  sober  again.  "Listen!"  he  said. 
"Do  you  hear  those  hylas  in  the  swamp?  Do  you 
feel  the  stillness,  the  hush  o'  the  world?  Of  course 
you  do — you've  got  senses.  Damn  few  people  have 
—they  only  pretend.  Well,  that's  why  I  came  out 
here  and  put  up  this  shack.  I  got  this  land  on  a 
swap  for  some  of  my  precious  inheritance.  Nobody 
bothers  me  here.  The  fishing  used  to  be  good  in 
Muddy  Brook,  though  it's  not  any  more.  There 
are  still  showy  orchids  down  there  in  the  swamp. 
Many  an  evening  like  this  one  I've  sat  here  while  the 
darkness  crept  over  the  world,  and  a  fox  came  sneak- 
ing across  the  clearing,  or  a  deer  cracked  in  the 
bushes,  and  I've  thought  o'  what  the  Psalmist  said: 

"  '  Thou  makest  darkness,  and  it  is  night; 

Wherein  all  the  beasts  of  the  forest  do  creep  forth; 
The  young  lions  roar  after  their  prey 
And  seek  their  meat  from  God.' 

Maybe  it's  only  a  fox  after  a  pheasant  in  the  swamp, 
but  he's  seeking  his  meat  from  God,  at  that.  Look 
at  Venus  up  there  in  the  west,  like  a  lamp ! 


312  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

" '  Thou  makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and  the  evening 
to  rejoice.' 

No,  Alec,  you  mean  well  by  me,  and  you're  the  only 
soul  on  this  goodly  frame  who  does,  I  guess.  But  it 
won't  work.  I  don't  wanter  change.  I  got  a  little 
bit  o'  good  in  life  to  hang  on  to — 'spite  o'  what  folks 
say — and  it's  this,  whiskey  and  all." 

He  stooped  down,  stroking  his  dog's  head,  and  fell 
silent. 

Alec  was  silent,  too.  After  all,  he  thought,  what 
was  there  he  could  say?  Barring  the  whiskey,  of 
course,  this  man  was  but  doing  what  made  Thoreau 
famous,  when  you  came  to  think  of  it.  A  mute, 
inglorious  Thoreau,  with  a  vast  empirical  knowledge 
of  beasts  and  birds  and  fishes  never  committed  to 
paper,  that  perhaps  described  him.  In  his  heart 
Alec  could  not  withhold  a  certain  admiration,  the 
admiration  every  true-born  Yankee  has  for  the 
thorough-going  individualist,  nor  even  deny  him  a 
quaint  charm. 

"Well,  Howdy,  I'm  afraid  you're  right,"  he  said 
presently.  "I  don't  even  blame  you,  I  guess  I 
sympathize  with  you — except  for  the  rum.  That's 
bad  for  the  liver,  and  I  want  to  go  fishing  with  you 
for  many  a  year  yet.  I  must  be  on  my  way  now. 
I've  got  to  square  myself  with  Mrs.  Plumb,  and 
answer  about  forty  letters." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  313 

"That's  what  comes  of  having  a  housekeeper 
and  a  business,"  answered  Howdy  scornfully.  "If 
there  was  a  letter  for  me  in  the  post-office,  Joe  Smith 
would  throw  a  fit."  He  moved  toward  the  door  of 
his  shack.  "Come  in  here  a  minute  before  you  go," 
he  added. 

Alec  followed  him  to  the  hearth,  where  he  stooped 
down,  and  with  the  iron  bar  which  served  as  a  poker 
pried  up  a  large  stone  at  the  outer  corner.  Below 
was  a  hollow,  and  in  it  a  tin  box. 

"I  want  you  should  remember  that,  Alec,"  he 
said  slowly.  "It's  my  will  inside.  Funny,  my  mak- 
ing a  will,  ain't  it?  But — but — well,  there's  certain 
things  to  be  done.  You're  all  I've  got  to  rely  on 
to  do  'em." 

"Certain  things?     Of  course  I'll " 

"I  knew  you  would,"  said  Howdy,  letting  the 
stone  fall  back  like  an  interruption.  "Drop  in 
again  and  we'll  have  a  mess  o'  trout." 

Alec  shot  a  look  at  him,  and  turned  toward  the 
door  without  further  questioning. 

"  'Night,  Howdy,"  said  he. 

*  'Night,  Alec,"  the  other  answered,  as  he  took 
his  Bible  from  the  shelf. 

Three  days  later  Howdy  did  not  appear  in  the 
Bird  House  Man's  garden;  but  as  that  was  a  way  he 
had,  Alec  didn't  worry.  He  had  earned  all  he 


314  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

wanted,  evidently,  or  the  temptation  to  go  fishing 
had  become  too  strong.  It  was  mid-May  before 
Alec  Farnum  saw  him  again. 

Still  on  his  quest  for  rare  warblers,  Alec  had 
wandered  one  beautiful  clear  day  far  afield.  He  had 
left  home  early,  with  his  field  glasses  and  a  pocket  of 
lunch,  and  striking  at  once  up  over  Bear  Mountain 
had  reached  the  high  plateau  over  the  crest,  which 
had  been  a  famous  grazing  country  a  century  ago, 
but  was  now  almost  uninhabited,  crossed  only  by  a 
single  road  where  the  grass  grew  between  the  wheel 
ruts.  Much  of  the  land  had  gone  back  to  forest, 
and  even  the  scattered  clearings  were  hah*  overgrown 
with  berry  vines.  This  plateau  was  some  ten  miles 
across,  the  mountain  wall  dropping  down  on  the 
other  side  to  the  sleepy,  forgotten  hamlet  of  Mercer, 
isolated  from  all  railroads  and  so  far  removed  from 
Southmead  by  the  Bear  Mountain  barrier  that  it 
might  have  been  in  another  world.  Even  the  one 
road  which  crossed  the  plateau  did  not  lead  to 
Mercer,  but  turned  off  southward  to  connect  with  an 
ancient  turnpike  in  the  far  valley  near  the  mill  town 
of  North  Benton. 

Alec  had  tramped  till  nearly  noon,  now  through 
fields  and  along  the  forest  edge,  now  in  the  road, 
till  he  had  reached  the  point  where  the  road  came 
nearest  to  the  eastern  rim  of  the  plateau,  and  swung 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  315 

south.  If  he  kept  on  to  the  east,  he  reflected,  he 
would  reach  Mercer,  and  hence  another  north-and- 
south  valley  that  might  serve  as  a  migration  route. 
Besides,  the  day  was  fine  and  the  way  unknown  to 
him.  It  would  have  the  excitement  of  exploration. 
He  had  been  to  Mercer  but  four  or  five  times 
in  his  life,  and  then  by  the  long  road  around  the 
mountain. 

He  looked  about  him  now  for  some  path  or  wood 
road  leading  east,  and  presently  came  on  an  opening 
in  the  roadside  bramble  hedge  which  evidently 
marked  an  ancient  lumber  track.  He  struck  down  it 
at  once,  intent  on  reaching  water  somewhere  down 
the  slope  for  his  lunch.  There  was  little  water  on 
the  plateau,  so  that  he  had  not  crossed  a  brook  for 
the  past  three  or  four  miles,  and  he  was  getting 
thirsty.  The  logging  road  was  still  passably  dis- 
tinct for  a  mile  or  more,  until  the  edge  of  the  plateau 
was  reached.  Then  it  seemed  suddenly  to  lose 
itself,  to  die  away  into  the  mystery  of  the  forest. 
Alec,  peering  about  for  the  best,  way  down  through 
the  tangle  of  rocks  and  fallen  hemlocks  which  littered 
the  crest  of  the  ridge,  suddenly  spied  a  blaze  on  a 
tree.  He  went  over  to  it,  and  looked  on  the  other 
side.  There,  sure  enough,  was  a  corresponding 
blaze  for  the  eye  of  a  man  ascending  the  slope. 

"Well,  somebody  evidently  goes  somewhere,"  he 


316  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

thought,  and  plunged  down.  Several  more  blazes, 
some  of  them  fairly  fresh,  some  almost  healed  by 
time,  took  him  down  through  the  bad  stuff  and  the 
rocks  by  what  he  realized  was  about  the  only  prac- 
tical passage.  Below,  as  the  slope  grew  gentler, 
the  blazes  ceased,  but  by  the  woodsman's  instinct 
in  his  feet  Alec  felt  he  was  on  a  trail,  and  knew  when 
he  got  off  it.  To  the  eye  it  was  practically  invisible, 
however,  except  now  and  then  for  a  broken  branch 
or  the  footmark  where  a  piece  of  rotten  wood  had 
been  crushed.  He  walked  rapidly,  wondering  who 
could  use  this  trail,  and  why;  some  hunter,  probably, 
he  thought,  or  trapper,  who  ascended  thus  to  the 
wild  plateau.  Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of 
falling  water  and  increased  his  speed,  the  sound 
suddenly  augmenting  his  thirst  to  a  torture.  Evi- 
dently there  was  a  brook  not  far  ahead. 

There  was,  and  a  man  sitting  by  it,  the  noise 
deadening  his  ears  to  the  sound  of  Alec's  approach. 

"Howdy,  Howdy!"  Alec  cried,  when  he  was  almost 
upon  the  seated  figure. 

Howdy  started  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him, 
and  turned  a  startled  face.  But  he  kept  command 
of  his  voice. 

"Howdy,  Alec,"  he  answered,  completing  their 
habitual  salutation. 

"Well,  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here,"  Alec 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  317 

laughed.  "I  expected  to  eat  my  lunch  alone.  Had 
yours  yet?" 

Howdy  slapped  his  hip  pocket  with  a  shrug. 

"Won't  do,"  the  other  cried.  "Here,  have  one 
of  my  sandwiches.  And  let  me  at  that  water!" 

He  leaned  over  and  plunged  his  face  in  the  brook, 
drinking  deep. 

"This  brook's  a  new  one  on  me,"  he  said  as  he 
rose.  "I've  never  been  down  this  slope  of  the 
mountain.  Looks  as  if  there  might  be  fish  in  it. 
Are  there?  I'm  sure  there  are,  you've  kept  so  al- 
mighty quiet  about  it  these  thirty  years." 

But  Howdy  didn't  grin.  He  looked  sober  and 
troubled.  Alec,  however,  appeared  too  cheerful  to 
notice.  "Did  you  spot  that  trail  coming  down?" 
he  asked.  "I  wonder  who  blazed  it."  Then  he 
paused,  and  looked  sharply  at  Howdy.  "You  did, 
you  sly  fox,  you!"  he  cried.  "It  leads  straight  to 
the  best  trout  pool  in  the  county,  I'll  bet  a  hat! 
Come,  you've  got  to  let  me  see  you  land  one." 

Howdy's  face  expressed  relief,  which  Alec  did  not 
fail  to  note,  though  he  still  gave  no  sign  of  attention. 

"All  right,"  said  the  fisherman.  "Finish  your 
grub  first." 

Alec  passed  him  a  handful  of  raisins,  and  they 
munched  in  silence.  Then  Howdy  rose  and  started 
down  the  brook  bed,  with  steps  a  little  uncertain. 


318  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Once  Alec  thought  he  was  going  to  fall.  Presently 
he  stopped  by  a  deep  brown  pool  under  a  boulder, 
jointed  his  rod,  examined  his  fly,  and  with  hands 
that  trembled  made  a  perfect  cast  under  the  low- 
hanging  hemlock  boughs.  There  was  an  almost 
instantaneous  strike,  and  he  brought  out  a  ten-inch 
beauty.  He  cast  again,  and  brought  out  another, 
which  followed  the  first  into  the  pocket  of  his  old 
leather  jacket. 

"The  old  he-grandfather's  in  there  yet — let  him 
stay,"  said  he.  "I — I  got  to  be  goin'  on,  Alec." 

"You  mean  home?  Maybe  it's  time  I  turned 
back,  too — anyhow,  I  will  for  the  company." 

"Yes,  you'd  better.  It's  a  long  pull  home  for  lame 
walkers,"  Howdy  answered,  with  a  hint  of  his  old 
dryness.  "  But  I  got  to  be  pushin*  on  the  other  way." 

"You're  hiding  the  best  pool  from  me,  eh?"  said 
Alec.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  do  that  to  me,  Howdy." 
He  put  as  much  reproach  as  he  could  into  his  voice. 

The  other  man  looked  troubled  and  miserable. 
"  No — no — it  ain't  that,  Alec,  honest.  I — I  wouldn't 
do  that  to  you.  I — I — I  just  got  to  be  pushin'  on." 

"Well,  I'll  push  on  then,  too.  I  really  wanted  to 
get  to  Mercer.  How  far  is  it?" 

"Three  mile,  at  the  least.  You  can't  make  it 
and  get  back  in  time  for  grub.  Think  what  Mrs. 
Plumb'll  do  to  you." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  319 

"Oh,  bother  Mrs.  Plumb.  You  can't  scare  me  so 
easy  as  that.  If  you  can  walk  it,  I  can." 

Howdy  drew  his  thin  form  erect,  as  if  with  the 
sudden  stiffening  of  resolution.  "Come  on,  then," 
he  said,  with  strange  gruff  ness.  "I  never  meant  you 
should  know  till  I  was  dead  and  you  opened  that  tin 
box.  But  maybe  it's  best  you  should  know  now. 
I — I — my  God,  Alec,  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone!" 

His  face  was  working  with  emotion,  and  as  he 
stepped  off  the  rock  he  seemed  about  to  fall,  so  that 
Alec  put  out  a  hand  and  caught  his  arm.  But  he 
shook  the  hand  off  almost  angrily,  and  strode  back, 
in  the  lead,  to  their  starting-point  at  the  falls. 
There  he  turned  into  the  dim  trail  again,  swinging 
down  the  slope  without  the  slightest  hesitancy,  and 
at  such  a  pace  that  Alec  was  hard  put  to  keep  up. 
He  said  never  a  word. 

They  broke  out  of  the  woods  after  a  mile,  into  an 
upland  pasture,  still  silent  and  in  single  file,  crossed 
the  pasture,  broke  through  a  grove  of  birches  at  the 
lower  edge,  and  came  down  through  a  second  pasture 
strewn  with  boulders  to  an  ancient  white  farmhouse, 
surrounded  by  blossoming  apple  trees,  and  looking 
eastward  over  brown  ploughed  fields  to  the  distant 
white  spire  of  the  Mercer  meeting-house.  A  thin 
white  road  crossed  these  fields  and  ended  in  the 


320  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

dooryard.  This  farm  was  the  valley  outpost  against 
the  invasion  of  the  mountain  forest,  a  pretty,  peaceful 
spot,  so  picturesque  that  Alec  unconsciously  stopped 
in  his  tracks  to  admire  it. 

But  Howdy  kept  on,  and  Alec  hurried  after  him. 

In  the  dooryard  Howdy  also  stopped,  and  gave 
a  low,  peculiar  whistle,  more  like  a  bird  song  than  a 
tune.  A  second  later  the  door  opened  and  a  strange 
figure  ran  out  with  a  little  cry  of  welcome. 

"Oh,  here's  the  fish  man!"  were  her  words. 

But  they  were  spoken  in  a  child's  voice — a  child's 
voice  grown  old.  She  was  a  gray-haired  woman, 
but,  like  a  child's,  her  hair  hung  in  curls  on  either 
side  of  her  face,  and  it  was  bound  with  a  large  pink 
bow,  and  under  one  arm  she  carried  a  doll. 

Alec  shuddered. 

She  was  close  to  Howdy  now,  laughing  gayly, 
and  feeling  for  his  pockets.  To  Alec  his  face  was 
no  less  terrible  than  hers,  as  he  brought  forth  the 
two  trout  he  had  caught  and  gave  them  to  her,  and 
others  besides  which  evidently  had  been  caught 
earlier. 

"Margy,  Margy!"  she  called,  her  voice  cracking 
with  excitement.  "  Bring  a  plate ! " 

Another  woman  appeared  at  the  door,  with  a 
plate  in  her  hand,  nodding  to  Howdy,  and  cast  a 
glance  of  astonishment  at  Alec. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  321 

"You  run  and  put  them  in  the  pantry,  sister 
Jane,"  said  she  to  the  child- woman,  who  obediently 
trotted  off. 

"Mr.  Farnum,  from  Southmead,  my  best  friend — 
Mrs.  Compton,"  said  Howdy,  the  words  barely 
coming  from  his  throat. 

Alec  took  off  his  hat,  looking  at  the  woman  as  he 
did  so.  She  was  of  about  his  own  age,  a  shade 
grayer,  perhaps,  and  must  once  have  been  handsome. 
But  like  many  another  mountain  farm  woman  she 
bore  the  hard  marks  of  her  life  on  her  face  and 
figure. 

"Where's  Joe?"  said  Howdy. 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  The  village, 
as  usual,  I  s'pose,"  she  answered.  "The  new  man's 
good,  though.  Got  the  ploughin'  done  early,  and 
all  the  corn's  in  the  ground  and  up,  and  we  got  the 
south  field  down  to  pertaters." 

"'Behold,  now,  Thy  servant  hath  found  grace  in 
Thy  sight,'"  said  Howdy,  with  a  wry  smile.  "Well, 
I'm  glad,  and  I'm  just  as  pleased  Joe  ain't  here." 

He  pulled  a  greasy,  battered  old  wallet  from  an 
inner  pocket,  while  the  woman  shifted  her  feet  In 
her  embarrassment  at  Alec's  presence,  and  took 
from  it  a  number  of  bills,  which  Alec  could  see  from 
where  he  stood  far  exceeded  any  pay  he  had  given 
to  Howdy  for  garden  work.  These  he  gave  to  the 


322  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

woman  and  she  hastily  slipped  them  into  the  bosom 
of  her  gown. 

"Thanks,"  she  muttered.     "You  well,  Howdy?'* 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "'Boast  not  thyself 
of  the  morrow,  for  thou  knowest  not  what  a  day 
may  bring  forth,' "  he  said.  "And — and  she?" 

Again  his  voice  choked. 

The  woman  glanced  back  into  the  house.  "Just 
the  same,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "She'll  outlast 
us  all.  Grandmother  did,  you  know.  Sh!  She's 
coming  now." 

Howdy  turned  hastily  and  began  to  stride  away 
toward  the  mountain  again,  Alec  behind  him.  They 
heard  the  strange,  old-young  voice  call:  "Fish  man, 
don't  go  'way!"  and  then  a  sound  as  of  an  old,  old 
child  crying  with  disappointment. 

Howdy  clapped  both  hands  to  his  ears,  and  almost 
ran  up  the  slope.  He  never  stopped  his  furious  pace 
till  they  were  in  the  woods  again,  and  then  he  sank, 
exhausted  and  panting,  on  a  log,  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

Alec  stood  above  him,  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Why  do  you  come  at  all?"  he  said.  "Why 
don't  you  send  the  money?" 

Howdy  looked  up,  miserable.  "I  have  to,"  he 
answered.  "I  have  to  see  her — and  it  almost  kills 
me." 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  323 

"It  happened  long  ago?" 

"Thirty-odd  years.  Scarlet  fever,  they  said. 
But  her  grandmother  went  the  same  way." 

Alec  was  silent  a  long  moment,  his  hand  moving 
gently  on  Howdy's  shoulder. 

"Was  that  her  home?"  he  presently  asked. 

The  other  nodded.  "I  came  down  that  brook 
and  found  her,  thirty-one  years  ago,"  he  cried  out, 
as  if  glad  at  last  to  speak.  "The  flowers  had  ap- 
peared on  the  earth,  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
had  come.  And  oh,  thou  wert  fair,  my  beloved! 
I  gave  her  all  my  trout  before  we  said  a  word." 

He  lifted  his  face,  and  his  eyes  looked  out  past 
Alec  toward  the  valley  below. 

"Yes,  she  lived  there,"  he  went  on.  "She  loved 
that  house,  that  gentle  valley.  It  was  going  to  be 
our  home — ours!" 

His  eyes  fell  at  the  word,  and  he  turned  his  face 
away  from  the  valley. 

"Then — then  that  happened.  I  was  camping  up 
the  brook  to  be  near  while  she  was  sick — and  one 
day  they — they  told  me.  I  thought  it  was  a  dream 
— that  we'd  wake  up.  But  we  never  woke.  Then 
her  father  died,  and  her  sister,  that's  the  one  you 
met,  she  lived  in  Connecticut  some  place — was  going 
to  send  her  away  to  an  asylum!  Why,  it  would 
have  killed  her,  wouldn't  it?" 


324  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

He  looked  up  at  Alec  pleadingly,  and  Alec  nodded, 
not  trusting  to  speech. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "Joe  Compton's  no  good, 
and  he  couldn't  run  a  farm,  but  there  was  nobody 
else  'cept  her  sister  to  keep  her  there,  in  the  place 
she  loved,  where  nobody  could  see  her  and  nobody 
could  make  fun  of  her,  and  where  she  could  smell  the 
apple  blossoms  in  the  spring.  Maybe  I  thought 
some  day,  if  she  kept  seeing  me,  her  poor,  lost  mind 
would  come  back — her  poor,  lost  mind!  God,  Alec, 
where  does  a  mind  go  to  when  it  leaves  the  body  like 
that — leaves  the  body  still  young  and  healthy  and 
active?  Where  does  it  go  to?" 

"I  think  God  has  it,  keeping  it  for  her — and  for 
you,"  Alec  answered,  patting  the  shoulder  below 
him. 

"And  that  was  why  you  sold  your  father's  house  in 
Southmead?"  he  asked  after  a  silence. 

"There  was  more'n  the  house,"  said  Howdy. 
"It's  all  in  bonds,  over  to  the  North  Benton  Bank. 
I  go  fishin*  every  so  often — for  coupons.  That 
keeps  the  farm  going  in  spite  of  Joe  Compton.  She 
— she's  never  lacked  for  anything." 

"And  back  home  we  thought  you'd  blown  it  all 
in  for  rum!"  said  Alec,  almost  to  himself. 

"Yes,  and  they're  still  a-goin'  to  think  so,,  the 
Scribes  and  Pharisees!"  Howdy  cried,  stiffening  up. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  325 

"By  God,  Alec,  if  you  ever  let  'em  think  anything 
else — if  you  ever  let  'em  know  about  her,  I'll " 

"There,  there!"  said  Alec,  tapping  him.  "You 
and  I  are  friends,  and  you've  trusted  me.  Don't 
you  trust  me  still?" 

The  man  on  the  log  put  out  his  thin,  hard  hand  in 
silence,  and  Alec  grasped  it. 

"Alec,"  he  said,  "some  day  I'll  go  off  alone  to  die, 
like  the  beasts  of  the  field.  It'll  be  sooner  than 
anybody  thinks,  maybe.  You  know  where  that  tin 
box  is,  and  you  know  now  what  you've  got  to  do  for 
me.  If — if  I  go  before  the  old  pup,  look  after  him, 
too." 

"We  won't  talk  of  dying  just  yet,"  Alec  answered. 
"Where  is  Spot,  by  the  way?" 

"I  lock  him  up  when  I  hit  this  trail,"  said  Howdy; 
"it — it's  too  long  for  him;  he's  too  old.  And  sh-she's 
scared  of  dogs.  Come,  you  must  be  starting  now. 
It's  a  good  eighteen  mile  back." 

"We  must  be  starting,  you  mean,"  said  Alec 
gently. 

Howdy  shook  his  head.  "For  thirty  years  I've 
climbed  that  trail  alone,"  he  answered,  a  solemn 
dignity  in  his  face. 

Alec  paused  a  moment,  irresolute.  "Remember, 
you've  got  to  feed  poor  Spot,"  he  said. 

There  was  the  vaguest  dryness  in  Howdy's  tone  as 


326  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

he  replied.  "I  shan't  depart  that  way,"  he  said. 
"You  needn't  worry.  'By,  Alec." 

Alec  accepted  the  inevitable. 

"  'By,  Howdy,"  he  answered. 

And  he  struck  up  the  dim  trail  through  the  forest, 
leaving  the  bent,  brown  figure  still  seated  on  the  log 
behind. 

It  was  pitch  dark  when  he  came  into  Southmead, 
and  a  whip-poor-will  was  singing  mournfully  by  the 
bridge. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   HOMING   PIGEON 

FEW  of  us  are  above  a  weakness  for  memorial 
trinkets  of  our  dead  lives,  and  Alec  Farnum  was  no 
exception.  Neither,  to  be  sure,  was  he  greatly  an 
offender;  but  at  the  back  of  the  bottom  drawer  of  his 
desk  was  a  little  tin  box,  and  in  that  box  lay  a  faded 
photograph  of  a  girl,  a  bit  of  yellowed  lace,  a  glove, 
and  a  score  or  so  of  letters,  tied  together.  He  had 
not  looked  upon  these  relics  for  years,  howeVer. 
Long,  long  since,  the  memory  of  that  first  love- 
passion  of  his  manhood  had  changed  from  an  aching 
sense  of  loss  to  a  soft  and  wistful  recollection  almost 
as  of  another's  life.  He  could  manage  a  smile  as  he 
thought  of  his  relics  there  in  the  tin  box,  but  he 
hardly  cared  to  look  at  them.  Alas!  he  was  past 
fifty.  What  had  he  to  do  with  gloves  and  notes  and 
tender  love  tokens?  And  they  reminded  him  too 
painfully  of  his  loveless  years. 

He  shut  the  drawer  rather  hastily  on  this  day  when 
the  box  had  come  again  to  his  view,  and  leaned  for- 
ward over  his  desk,  playing  idly  with  a  pencil.  Alec 
bad  never  married.  When  he  returned  from  his 

827 


328  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"finishing  trip"  abroad,  after  his  college  days  were 
over,  and  found  that  Elsie  had  gone  from  Southmead 
and  become  another's  wife,  his  soul  had  been  plunged 
in  the  depths.  He  could  still  recall  the  agony  of 
those  days.  He  recalled,  too,  his  fight  with  himself 
to  regain  poise  and  happiness,  and  how  he  had  found 
both  in  study  and  service — service  to  his  beloved 
birds  and  to  his  town  and  neighbours .  No,  it  had  been 
many,  many  years  now  since  he  could  call  himself  an 
unhappy  man — he  had  to  confess  that.  He  had  to 
confess,  too,  that  it  had  been  many,  many  years  since 
he  gave  up  his  first  hope  that  she  might  some  day 
come  back  to  him.  He  drew  the  design  of  a  bird 
house  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  almost  mechanically. 
Yes,  he  would  have  to  confess  that  it  had  been  many 
years  since  he  had  greatly  desired  Elsie  to  come  back 
to  him! 

This  last  reflection  caused  the  pencil  to  drop  from 
Alec's  fingers.  He  was  not  much  given  to  intro- 
spection, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  lived  alone.  This 
reflection  had  actually  come  to  him,  definitely  for- 
mulated, for  the  first  time,  and  it  surprised  him. 
Why,  then,  had  he  lived  on  alone?  Why  had  he 
never  married? 

He  picked  up  the  pencil  once  more  and  made  sprawl- 
ing marks.  There  is  a  bloom,  a  wonder,  an  en- 
chantment, radiating  from  the  first-love  passion 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  329 

which  can  never  be  recaptured.  Women  had  at- 
tracted him  since — he  realized  that.  But  none  had 
stirred  in  him  this  holy  intensity,  none  had  come  with 
"  the  aura  of  enchantment "  in  her  hair.  And  now  he 
was  nearing  fifty-five!  Passion  could  never  stir  in 
him  again,  he  thought.  He  would  live  for  Ruth, 
for  little  Miss  Millie  Tilton,  for  all  his  flock  of  de- 
voted friends  and  proteges.  After  all,  he  was  blessed 
as  few  men  are.  He  smiled,  though  it  may  be  a  little 
wistfully,  and  tossing  the  pencil  aside  rose  and  walked 
to  the  veranda  overlooking  his  garden,  where  the 
foxgloves  were  just  coming  into  flower. 

Ruth  was  in  the  garden,  walking  with  a  woman  he 
had  never  seen  before.  Doubtless,  he  thought,  it 
was  her  friend  Mary  Todd  about  whom  she  had  writ- 
ten so  much  to  him  the  past  winter,  and  whom  she 
had  induced  to  come  to  Southmead  for  a  vacation. 
Mary  Todd  belonged,  Alec  fancied,  to  the  type  of 
"new  woman" — whatever  that  is.  At  any  rate,  she 
was  a  member  of  the  Minimum  Wage  Commission, 
she  wrote  pamphlets  and  articles,  she  made  speeches 
for  equal  suffrage.  Still,  if  Ruth  admired  her  so 
much,  Alec  was  prepared  to  like  her,  too.  He  smiled 
as  this  phrasing  crossed  his  mind.  "I  am  getting  to 
be  an  old  fogy,"  he  thought. 

Then  he  whistled  to  attract  Ruth's  attention. 

"Oh,  hello,  you're  not  working,"  she  called.     "I 


SSO  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

was  afraid  you  would  be,  so  I  didn't  disturb  you.  I 
was  showing  Miss  Todd  the  garden.  Do  you  mind?  " 

"Very  much,"  said  Alec,  coming  down  the  path  to 
meet  them. 

He  shook  hands  with  the  stranger,  looking  into  her 
eyes  keenly,  eyes  that  looked  back  into  his  with  no 
less  frank  a  curiosity.  She  was  a  tall,  strong,  energetic 
woman,  he  judged  about  forty,  though  it  might  be 
that  the  decisive  lines  of  character  written  on  her  face 
gave  her  an  added  maturity.  She  had  keen  gray 
eyes,  not  without  a  twinkle,  and  a  large  mouth  which 
parted  in  a  bright  smile.  Her  voice  was  low  pitched, 
strong,  and  pleasant. 

"I  think  your  garden  is  charming,"  she  said.  "If 
I  said  quaint  I  presume  you'd  not  forgive  me." 

"  I'd  rather  you  said  queer,"  Alec  replied.  "  A  gar- 
den should  be  like  its  owner." 

"And  are  you  queer?" 

"Ask  Ruth,"  he  laughed. 

"I'd  rather  call  it  dear — sometimes,"  she  answered, 
leaning  on  his  arm. 

"Ruth  has  told  me  so  much  about  you  that  I  really 
feel  as  if  I  knew  you,"  said  Miss  Todd. 

"And  Ruth  has  told  me  so  much  about  you  that 
I'm  afraid  of  you,"  Alec  replied. 

"  Afraid  of  me  ?    Why,  Ruth,  what  have  you  said ? ' ' 

"She's  made  me  think  you  are  an  emancipated 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  331 

female,"  said  Alec,  "and  I'm  always  afraid  of  eman- 
cipated females.  You  never  know  when  they  are 
going  to  have  an  attack  of  old-fashionedness." 

Miss  Todd  laughed,  a  low,  infectious  laugh. 

"The  only  kind  of  a  man  I'm  afraid  of  is  an  old- 
fashioned  man,"  she  said.  "You  never  know  when 
they  are  going  to  have  an  attack  of  intelligence." 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  again,  their  eyes 
twinkling,  and  the  Bird  House  Man  felt  deliciously 
alert  and  vital. 

"Well,  I'm  an  old-fashioned  man — look  out  for 
me!"  he  said,  and  led  the  way  through  the  flowery 
paths  of  his  garden. 

His  visitor  was  genuinely  interested  in  flowers  and 
birds;  he  could  tell  that  by  a  sixth  sense  all  true 
gardeners  possess.  She  was  particularly  enthusiastic 
in  the  wild-flower  corner,  naming  several  varieties 
from  their  leaves. 

"You  know  the  wild  flowers,  don't  you?"  he  said. 

"I  did  once,"  she  answered,  with  sudden  wistful- 
ness.  "  I  was  born  in  the  country,  in  one  of  those  little 
white  houses  we  used  to  think  all  true  Americans  came 
from.  Oh,  it's  good  to  get  back  into  the  country!" 

"And  where  do  true  Americans  come  from  now?" 
asked  Alec. 

"East  Houston  Street  and  Lithuania,"  she  an- 
swered. "At  least,  that's  my  professional  opinion. 


332  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Oh,  you  have  cardinal  flowers!  When  will  they 
blossom?" 

"Before  you  leave  us,  I  hope,"  said  Alec  gallantly. 
"Now,  Ruth,  you  run  and  get  the  kettle  started 
while  Miss  Todd  and  I  pick  a  bouquet." 

He  began  cutting  several  of  his  Siberian  irises, 
while  his  guest  protested. 

"It's  a  shame  to  cut  them,"  she  said. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Alec.  "It  hurts  me  more 
than  it  does  them,  too.  But  if  it  was  no  sacrifice  to 
cut  them,  it  would  be  no  pleasure  to  give  them.  So, 
you  see,  I'm  selfish  after  all." 

"Ruth  has  often  told  me  how  selfish  you  are,"  the 
woman  smiled,  as  she  took  the  irises  from  his  hands. 

"Ruth  is  a  sentimental  little  goose,"  answered  the 
Bird  House  Man  crossly. 

Miss  Todd  laughed  again,  her  low,  infectious  laugh. 
"But  isn't  that  the  kind  of  old-fashioned  woman  you 
like?" 

"It  used  to  be;  I've  been  converted  to  the  eman- 
cipated female  recently,"  he  said. 

Miss  Todd  looked  at  him  quickly,  as  if  she  were 
not  quite  sure  how  to  take  this.  Then  she  smiled. 
"You  still  try  to  flatter  like  the  old-fashioned  male," 
she  replied. 

Alec  laughed,  too.  He  felt  altogether  foolish  and 
light  headed. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  333 

"But  one  has  so  little  success  with  the  new 
woman!  You  don't  even  blush.  Yet  a  blush 
would  immensely  become  you — immensely." 

"Blushes,  I  fear,  are  for  debutantes.  I'm  a 
middle-aged  woman,"  she  said,  rather  soberly, 
though  her  lips  smiled. 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  said  Alec.  "To  me,  at  least, 
you  seem  a  girl.  And  yet  you  seem  not  a  girl.  You 
seem  to  pull  me  back  to  a  point  where  my  old  blood 
races  like  a  contemporary.  Upon  my  word,  Miss 
Todd,  I  want  horribly  to  flirt  with  you!" 

He  spoke  with  comic  solemnity,  and  yet  he  seemed 
almost  naively  sincere.  The  woman  dropped  her 
eyes  suddenly  and  turned  rosy,  making  no  answer  ex- 
cept to  quicken  her  pace  toward  the  house. 

Alec  walked  beside  her  in  silence.  He  had  seen  the 
blush,  and  he  felt  with  a  strange  thrill  that  prickle  of 
guilt  which  comes  to  the  young  when  they  are  doubt- 
ful of  the  impression  they  have  made  on  a  woman. 
He  wanted  to  take  her  hand  and  ask  her  pardon.  He 
wanted  to  turn  a  somersault  of  delight.  He  very 
nearly  ended  by  calling  himself  an  old  fool,  out  loud. 

Ruth  had  the  tea  ready,  and  the  next  hour  passed 
merrily.  When  his  guests  had  gone  Alec  went 
back  into  his  garden  and  contemplated  the  cut 
stalks  of  his  Siberian  irises,  shaking  his  head  in  per- 
plexity. 


334  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

Nor  did  his  perplexity  decrease  as  his  relations  with 
Miss  Todd  grew  more  intimate.  They  talked  some- 
times for  hours  of  birds  and  wild  flowers,  as  he  led  her 
on  tramps  through  the  woods.  Again  they  talked 
of  social  problems,  she  from  her  standpoint  of  legisla- 
tive reform,  he  from  his  narrower  but  more  intense 
groove  of  individualistic  humanitarianism.  To  Alec, 
every  problem  had  been  a  personal  one — the  redemp- 
tion of  a  single  soul.  He  knew  the  unit,  she  knew  the 
mass.  Their  minds  struggled  to  meet,  to  adjust,  to 
correlate.  It  was  fascinating,  thrilling  to  him,  and 
he  was  not  unaware  that  she,  too,  enjoyed  their  long 
talks  as  they  tramped  along. 

But  he  was  equally  aware  that  it  was  useless  to 
deny  her  sex  attraction  for  him,  or  the  vague  sense 
she  had  of  its  existence,  so  that  there  was  a  defen- 
sive wall  always  between  them.  At  times,  when  he 
helped  her  over  a  fence,  touching  her  hand,  he  tingled 
like  a  boy  again,  and  released  her  fingers  in  haste  lest 
she  should  guess.  It  was  a  mystery  to  him  that  this 
fine  vibrant  woman  should  still  be  single.  He  longed 
to  question  her,  but  somehow  the  questions  never 
reached  his  lips. 

Then  suddenly,  unexpectedly,  the  memories  were 
released  again  from  that  tin  box,  and  Alec's  dead  life 
returned  to  confront  him. 

It  was  Miss  Millie  Til  ton  who  brought  him  the  news. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  335 

She  was  pale  and  flustered  when  she  entered  the 
garden  where,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  weeding. 

"Alec,"  she  said  solemnly,  "somebody's  come 
back!" 

The  man  started  to  his  feet.  "  You — you  mean " 

She  nodded.  "Elsie,  yes.  She  came  this  noon. 
She's  at  Sarah's.  She  came  to  see  me.  She — she's  a 
widow  now." 

"Is  she  in  trouble?"  the  man  asked  quickly. 

"I  don't  think  so.  She  was  awfully  well  dressed. 
She  always  did  dress  well,  you  remember.  She  said 
she  came  back  because  she  wanted  to  see  her  old 
home.  She  said  her  son  was  married,  and  her  house 
was  lonesome,  so  she  just  packed  up  and  came.  She 
— she  asked  after  you,  Alec." 

"It's  been  thirty-two  years  since  I  saw  her!"  Alec 
said,  as  if  to  himself.  He  wiped  the  back  of  his  earth- 
stained  hand  across  his  forehead.  "Why  did  she 
come  back  now?  " 

Miss  Millie  stole  up  close  to  him  and  laid  her  finger 
tips  lightly  on  his  sleeve.  "She — she's  very  pretty 
still,  Alec,"  said  the  little  woman. 

Alec  looked  down  upon  his  friend  and  smiled  into 
her  big  brown  eyes. 

"Millie,"  he  said,  "it's  not  quite  as  you  think,  I'm 
afraid.  You  thought  that  all  these  lonesome  years 
I'd  gone  on  loving  Elsie.  I  used  to  think  so,  too. 


336  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

But  it  isn't  so.  We  aren't  made  that  way,  after  all. 
If  it  had  been  so,  I  should  have  stagnated.  Instead, 
I've  kept  alive.  Of  course,  if  she  were  in  trouble  I'd 
help  her.  But  I'm  afraid  I  don't  want  to  see  her 
otherwise." 

"  Oh,  Alec ! "  Miss  Millie  gasped.  "  And  I  thought 
you  were  so  fine  and  strong  and  had  forgiven  her!" 

"I'm  afraid  you  still  don't  understand,"  he  an- 
swered. "There  was  never  any  question  of  forgive- 
ness. The  wind  of  passion  bloweth  where  it  listeth. 
I  never  had  to  forgive  Elsie  for  going  away.  That 
was  her  right — and  her  destiny.  But  much  water 
has  run  under  bridges  since  then.  I'm  not  the  man  I 
was — she's  not  the  woman.  Never  mind,  Millie — 
some  day  I'll  try  to  make  it  clearer." 

"Well,  she's  staying  at  Sarah's,"  said  the  little 
woman,  moving  away  and  watching  him  with  a 
puzzled  frown  as  he  stooped  again  and  began  to  pull 
weeds.  She  had  never  before  thought  that  he  could 
be  heartless,  she  told  herself. 

He  had  not  been  weeding  long  after  her  departure 
before  he  was  startled  by  a  step  on  the  sanded  path, 
and  looking  around  quickly  saw  a  woman  standing  be- 
fore him,  with  a  dash  of  lavender  on  her  white  dress 
and  a  lavender  bow  beneath  her  hat  brim,  which 
touched  with  a  pale  reflection  a  heightened  colour  into 
her  cheeks  and  lay  prettily  against  her  gray  hair.  She 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  337 

stood  in  silence  looking  at  him,  as  if  she  were  pleading 
for  recognition. 

Alec  sprang  to  his  feet.    "  Elsie ! "  he  said.    "  You ! " 

"Yes,  Alec,"  she  answered,  her  voice  almost  a 
whisper.  "It's  me.  I  don't  know  why  I've  come. 
I — I  was  lonely.  I — I — I  never  forgot  my  girlhood 
days;  women  don't,  I  guess.  It  seemed  as  if  I  just 
had  to  see  the  old 'scenes  again,  the  old  faces.  I — 
I'm  old  now  myself,  Alec.  Can't  you  forgive  me  and 
shake  hands?  See,  I've  put  away  all  my  pride  and 
come  to  you  to  ask  it." 

The  Bird  House  Man  wiped  his  soil-crusted  hand 
as  best  he  could  on  his  corduroy  trousers,  and  took 
her  proffered  palm. 

"There's  no  question  of  forgiveness,  Elsie,"  he  an- 
swered. "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

He  was  thinking  of  those  lone  night  watches  years 
ago  when  his  tortured  imagination  had  pictured  her 
return  to  him,  and  he  had  taken  her  into  his  arms 
with  a  cry  and  buried  her  weeping  face  on  his 
shoulder.  Now  the  touch  of  her  fingers  left  him  cold 
like  the  touch  of  a  stranger.  She  seemed  to  him,  as 
she  said,  an  old  lady.  He  noticed  a  certain  dumpi- 
ness in  her  walk  as  he  led  her  to  a  bench. 

"I — I've  read  your  works  all  these  years,  Alec,"  she 
was  saying.  "You're  quite  a  famous  man,  aren't 
you?" 


338  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

"Am  I?"  said  he.  "That's  a  bubble  I  never 
thought  much  about.  And  you?  Have  you  been 
happy?  Your  husband  is  dead,  Millie  tells  me." 

The  woman  inclined  her  head.  "He  died  two 
years  ago.  Must — must  we  talk  of  him?  I  have  a 
son  who  is  married.  He  lives  in  Cleveland.  I  am 
quite  alone  in  the  world  now." 

"You  have  money?" 

Again  she  inclined  her  head.  "I  have  plenty,"  she 
answered.  "But  that — that's  cold  comfort." 

"Cold,  perhaps,  but  somewhat  essential,  as  the 
world  is  organized,"  said  Alec.  "I'm  glad  to  hear 
you've  been  happy,  Elsie,  indeed  I  am." 

The  woman  was  looking  at  the  long  shadows  creep- 
ing across  the  garden,  lavender  shadows  from  a  glow- 
ing sunset.  The  birds  were  singing,  the  air  was 
fragrant  with  perfume. 

"Happiness,"  she  said  slowly,  "is  a  funny  thing. 
I'm  not  just  sure  I  know  what  it  is.  I  thought  when 
I — I  went  away  to  live  in  a  city  I  was  going  to  find  it 
there.  Now  it  seems  to  me  it  can  only  be  found  in 
— in — in  a  place  like  this,  where  it's  quiet  and  peace- 
ful and  birds  sing." 

"It's  in  neither  place,  Elsie.  It's  in  the  human 
heart,"  said  Alec.  "You  lived  in  a  city,  then?" 

"You  might  have  guessed,"  she  answered.  "It 
was  because  you  were  going  to  come  back  to  live  here 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  339 

that  I — I — oh,  Alec,  I  was  only  nineteen,  remem- 
ber!" 

There  fell  a  silence  between  them.  TSlsie  had  come 
back  to  him!  She  had  come  back  asking  for  his 
friendship,  perhaps  for  his  love.  And  he  could  find 
no  word  to  say.  It  hurt  him,  too,  that  he  should  feel 
a  certain  resentment  toward  her  for  coming  back,  for 
not  abiding  by  the  decision  she  had  made  and  seeing 
it  through.  "It's  only  silly  wounded  pride  on  my 
part,  because  she  comes  back  after  her  husband  is 
dead  and  her  son  married,"  he  told  himself.  But 
still  the  resentment  persisted,  and  he  sat  uncomfort- 
ably beside  her,  with  no  word  of  softness  on  his  lips. 

The  silence  grew  painful  to  both  of  them,  and  the 
woman  struggled  to  speak.  "Oh,  Alec,"  she  said, 
"we  are  both  old  people  now.  Can't — can't  you 
really  forgive  me  and  make  me  feel  that  you  are  glad 
to  see  me  back  again?  I've — I've  lived  for  this  home 
coming  for — for  two  years  now." 

She  put  one  hand  to  her  bosom  with  a  quaint  ges- 
ture that  Alec  remembered  out  of  the  past,  and  the 
sight  of  it  stabbed  him.  He  paused  long  before  he  re- 
plied. 

"No,  Elsie,"  he  finally  said  slowly.  "You  are 
wrong.  We  are  not  both  old  people.  You  have  had 
your  life — your  husband,  your  child.  The  boy,  you 
say,  is  married.  But  I  have  had  no  son,  no  daughter. 


340  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

I've  not  had  my  life.  I  still  feel  young,  foolishly 
young  no  doubt,  but  young  just  the  same.  You've 
made  me  realize  that  just  now,  since  you  came.  Once 
I  was  five  years  older  than  you.  Now  I  am  ten  years 
younger.  We  aren't  the  people  we  once  were,  Elsie. 
We  never  can  be  again.  I  tell  you  again  there's  no 
question  of  forgiveness.  But  once  you  were  to  me 
the  dearest  thing  in  earth  or  Heaven — and  I  couldn't 
forget  that.  If  you  could  have  returned  to  me  with 
the  aura  in  your  hair!" 

"I — I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

The  man  smiled  faintly.  "Neither  do  I — quite," 
he  answered.  "Oh,  Elsie,  you  ought  never  to  have 
gone  away!" 

"  Don't— don't ! "  she  cried.  "  I've  known  that  al- 
ways— always ! " 

She  stared  straight  ahead,  her  eyes  misty,  and  the 
man  beside  her  looked  helplessly  at  his  feet.  Then 
she  rose. 

"I'm  going  now,"  she  said. 

Alec  rose  also.  "  I — I  don't  know  what  to  say " 

he  began. 

She  managed  a  crooked  little  smile.  "Of  course 
not,"  she  answered.  "There  was  only  one  thing,  and 
you  can't  say  that.  I  ought  never  to  have  come." 

He  let  her  go  down  through  the  garden,  struggling 
with  himself.  His  conscience  told  him  to  call  out  to 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  341 

her,  to  rush  and  take  her  hand,  to  lead  her  back.  Yet, 
as  she  walked,  with  bowed  head,  a  mature  figure 
settling  into  dumpiness,  he  saw  the  tall,  erect,  lithe 
figure  of  Mary  Todd,  and  passion  stirred  within  him. 
It  was  not  a  memory  his  heart  hungered  for,  but  an 
actuality;  not  sacrifice,  but  throbbing  life.  And 
passion  had  its  way;  he  was  silent,  and  let  her 
depart. 

When  she  had  gone,  he  took  the  tin  box  and  buried 
it  deep  behind  the  garden.  But  his  conscience  was 
not  so  easily  to  be  laid.  All  that  night  he  lay  awake, 
wrestling  with  his  problem.  He  knew  well  enough 
what  he  would  have  advised  another  in  his  situation, 
and  he  smiled  grimly  at  the  irony  of  his  predicament. 
He  had  counciled  so  long  for  others'  happiness  now 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  seize  his  own.  Sacrifice 
had  become  a  habit. 

"I'm  a  damned  New  Englander  after  all,"  he  mut- 
tered in  the  dark. 

Then  he  heard  again  the  woman's  words,  "I've 
known  that  always — always!"  and  saw  her  bowed 
head  as  she  departed.  She  had  chosen  the  worser 
part — she  had  suffered;  and  his  heart  bled  for  her,  she, 
the  girl  who  had  been  to  him  once  the  Beatrice  of  his 
dreams. 

And  yet — and  yet — Love  had  come  to  him  again, 
come  to  him  with  a  strong,  mature,  tender  intensity, 


342  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

not  for  a  girl  to  be  sure,  but  for  a  woman  with  a  mind 
that  stimulated  him  and  a  love  life  still  before  her. 
How  he  loved  her!  He  made  no  concealment  of  it 
to  himself  any  longer.  Elsie's  coming  had  shown 
him  too  plainly  how  matters  stood.  He  would  ask 
her  for  her  love  in  the  morning.  If  it  could  be 
his,  then  he  owed  a  duty  to  her  as  well  as  Elsie, 
and  his  path  would  be  easy  to  choose.  If  she 
saw  him,  however,  as  the  silly  old  man  he  probably 
was,  then  he  would  help  Elsie  to  atone  for  her  loneli- 
ness, he  would  do  his  best  to  recapture  for  both  of 
them  a  little  of  the  savour  from  the  lost  years. 

Having  thus  put  his  problem  in  the  terms  of  some- 
body else's  happiness  rather  than  his  own,  he  slept 
at  last. 

It  was  late  afternoon  the  next  day  before  Mary 
Todd  could  go  to  walk  with  him.  Some  of  her  work 
had  pursued  her  into  the  country.  He  led  the  way 
back  into  his  garden,  by  a  rear  gate,  before  they  had 
gone  far,  and  sat  her  down  amid  his  flowers. 

"Mary,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you  think  of  me  as  an 
old  man,  don't  you?" 

"Do  I?"  she  said,  glancing  up  at  him  out  of  the 
corners  of  her  eyes.  "Then  I  must  be  a  very  old 
lady,  for  you  walk  me  off  my  feet." 

She  was,  indeed,  panting  a  little,  for  his  pace  had 
been  unconsciously  rapid. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  343 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  walking  at  ninety,"  he  smiled.  "I 
even  expect  to  play  tennis  at  eighty.  That's  not 
what  I  mean." 

She  grew  grave,  to  meet  the  gravity  of  his  under- 
lying mood. 

"Alec,"  she  said  — "I'm  going  to  call  you  Alec, 
without  the  'uncle,'  as  an  admission  of  my  own 
maturity — I've  never  thought  a  thing  about  it. 
Sometimes  you've  acted  to  me  like  a  very  small 
boy." 

She  laughed,  her  low,  delightful  laugh,  and  looked 
at  him  with  merry  eyes. 

His  pulses  raced  at  that  look.  "Mary,"  he  said, 
"I  don't  know  why  you've  never  married.  It  must 
be  that  your  standards  are  too  high  for  human 
nature's  daily  food.  But  I  love  you,  I  love  you  as  a 
lad  loves  his  lass,  a  young  man  his  wife.  I  love  you 
all — heart  and  brain  and  body.  If  you  should  marry 
me  it  would  be  an  act  of  utter  folly  on  your  part,  but 
it  would  make  me  the  happiest  creature  alive." 

The  smile  left  the  woman's  lips,  the  merriment  left 
her  eyes.  She  looked  into  his  face  soberly  and  ten- 
derly. 

"Alec,"  she  answered,  "you  are  the  best  man  I 
have  ever  known."  She  took  one  of  his  hands  in  both 
her  own,  and  held  it  a  second  to  her  cheek,  while  his 
heart  pounded.  "  I — I  have  never  loved  anybody  be- 


344  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

fore.  You  think  that  is  strange,  but  it  isn't.  All  my 
lif e  I've  been  in  the  thick  of  affairs.  I  haven't  lived  a 
woman's  life,  as  women's  lives  still  go  for  the  major- 
ity. I  don't  honestly  think  I've  ever  felt  the  need  of 
love.  It's  the  need  of  it  that  makes  most  of  us  love, 
you  know.  But  when  I  came  here,  to  your  lovely 
old  town,  to  your  garden,  tired  with  more  years  of 
labour  than  I  like  to  remember — yes,  I'm  forty — there 
were  flower  smells  that  came  back  from  my  girlhood 
and  smote  me,  and  then  you  came  out  of  your  pretty 
white  house,  and — and — I  fell  in  love  with  you,  dear 
Alec.  I've — I've  wanted  you  to  love  me,  not  the 
way  you  love  Ruth." 

She  touched  her  lips  to  his  hand,  and  then  turned 
her  face  away. 

The  Bird  House  Man  took  her  fingers,  in  turn, 
reverently. 

"You — you  will  marry  me?"  he  whispered. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"It  is  hard  to  say  that,"  she  finally  replied.  "I 
don't  know  if  I  can  make  you  understand.  It — it  is 
hard  to  give  up  one's  own  personality  and  'take  the 
quiet  name  of  wife."1 

"But  I  shouldn't  dream  of  that!"  Alec  cried. 
"Please  don't  take  my  old-fashionedness  quite  so 
seriously.  I'll  give  up  my  birds  before  you  shall  give 
up  your  minimum  wages!" 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  345 

She  smiled,  and  shook  her  head.  "You  don't 
know  much  about  women  after  all,"  she  said.  "Old- 
fashioned — new-fashioned — they  mean  little.  Mar- 
riage is  a  surrender.  As  some  woman  said,  *  There  is 
us,  but  there  isn't  me*  any  longer.  It  wouldn't  be  a 
true  marriage  if  that  weren't  so.  I've  had  my  me  so 
long,  I've  made  her  stand  up  and  bear  her  own  bur- 
dens so  often,  I'm  wondering  how  she'll  like  it — and 
what  unhappiness  you  would  have  if  she  didn't  like 
it." 

"I  don't  think  that  question  need  trouble  you," 
said  Alec  softly. 

The  sun  was  sinking  now.  A  hush  had  crept  over 
the  garden.  Out  of  the  flower  beds,  with  the  first 
hint  of  twilight,  an  odour  came  stealing,  and  Mary 
raised  her  face  and  drank  it  in. 

"What  is  that  fragrance?"  she  exclaimed.  "It — 
it  takes  me  back  across  the  years!" 

"Mathiola  Bicornis — fragrant  evening  .stock,"  said 
Alec. 

"Of  course — of  course!  Now  I  remember!  Father 
always  brought  some  plants  home  to  mother  from  a 
nursery,  on  June  second.  That  was  their  wedding 
anniversary.  It  comes  out  in  the  evening  and  it's  a 
homely  plant  to  look  at  by  day.  To  think  I  didn't 
recall  it  at  once!  Oh,  it's  like  coming  back  home  to 
smell  it!  I  wonder  why  father  always  brought  that 


346  THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

plant?  He  and  mother  set  them  out  together.  I 
can  see  them  now,  mother  with  her  trowel,  father 
with  the  little  pots.  They  always  laughed  when 
they  were  doing  it,  and  sometimes  they  would  stand 
after  the  plants  were  in,  holding  each  other's  hands." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  moment,  and  then  sud- 
denly she  turned  to  the  man  beside  her,  taking  his 
hand  again. 

"I  don't  know  yet  about  that  independent  me," 
she  said,  "but  I  think  that  I — that  I — I'd  like  to  have 
it  just  ILS!" 

Miss  Millie  Tilton,  coming  into  the  garden  to  tell 
Alec  that  Elsie  had  gone  away  again  on  the  afternoon 
train,  but  not  before  Millie  had  persuaded  her  to 
leave  her  address  behind,  saw  the  two  figures  on  the 
bench  and  stopped  dead  in  her  tracks,  overcome  with 
surprise  and  confusion.  Hastily,  unseen,  she  beat  a 
retreat.  That  evening  the  poor  little  spinster  spent 
miserably  in  her  tiny  parlour.  Alec  was  going  to 
have  a  wife!  She  would  have  to  adjust  herself  to  a 
whole  new  set  of  conditions  in  the  house  next  door. 
That  bond  of  memories  between  her  and  Alec  was 
broken  now,  nay,  violated.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
some  hallowed  and  precious  crystal  had  been  shat- 
tered. She  mopped  her  big  eyes  occasionally  with 
her  little  lace  handkerchief  and  let  her  sewing  drop  to 
the  floor. 


THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN  347 

But  Alec  Farnum,  beyond  the  hedge,  was  aware 
only  of  the  scent  of  evening  stock,  and  a  warm,  strong 
hand  in  his,  and  tender,  half-spoken  hopes  of  life  to 
come. 


THE  END 


THI  COUNTRY   LIFE  PEES3 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  T. 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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